University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
Gift  of 

PROFESSOR  CHARLES  FAULHABER 


l&          «~tA- 


PARNASSUS   IN   PILLORY, 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


A    SATIRE. 


MOTLEY    MANNERS,    ESQUIRE,  (j 


"Lend  me  your  EAKS." 

SHAKSPEARE. 


NEW    YORK: 
ADRIANCE,    SHERMAN   &    CO.,    2   ASTOR    HOUSE 

1851. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850, 
in  the  ClerVs  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


R.  Craiyhead,  Printer  and  8tereotypert 
112  Fulton  Street,  New  York. 


PAENASSUS   IN  PILLORY, 


O,  THOU  who  whilome,  with  unsparing  jibe 
And  scorching  satire,  lashed  the  scribbling  tribe  ; 
Thou,  who  on  Roman  pimp  and  parasite 
Didst  pour  the  vials  of  thy  righteous  spite ; — 
Imperial  HORACE  !  let  thy  task  be  mine — 
Let  truth  and  justice  sanctify  my  line  ! 

And  thou !  relentless  Draco  of  the  schools, 
Whose  laws  were  scored  upon  the  backs  of  fools  ! 
Thou  bi-tongued  genius,  from  whose  magic  lips 
Poison  for  knaves,  for  good  men  honey,  drips ; 
Thou  Poet-Lacon,  withering  with  a  verb, 
And  reining  folly  with  a  figure's  curb, — 
Thou  of  the  DUNCIAD  !  animate  my  strain  ; 
For  vain  my  task  if  'tis  not  in  thy  vein  ! 


2  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

As  in  some  butcher's  barricaded  stall, 
A  thousand  prisoned  rats  gnaw,  squeak,  and  crawl, 
While  at  the  entrance,  held  by  stalwart  hands, 
A  panting  terrier  strives  to  burst  his  bands ; — 
With  eyes  inflamed  and  glittering  teeth  displayed, 
Half  turns  to  bite  the  hand  by  which  he's  stayed ; — 
So  writhes  and  pants  my  terrier  muse  to  chase 
The  rats  of  letters  from  creation's  face. 

Far  scurvier  vermin  these,  my  biped  game — 
Rats  gnaw  but  books — these  gnaw  the  author's  fame ; 
Holding  Parnassus  as  a  mammoth  cheese, 
Which,  climbing  not,  they  nibble  as  they  please ; 
And  plying  tooth  and  claw  so  fast  and  well, 
That  the  whole  mount  is  like  a  hollow  shell. 
Pharaoh  was  plagued  with  locusts  for  his  crimes — 
Happy  was  Pharaoh  to  escape  our  times  : 
When  myriad  insects,  plumed  with  pens  of  steel, 
Buzz  like  some  thrifty  housewife's  ceaseless  wheel — 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  3 

Buzz,  but  beyond  the  buzz  all  likeness  dwindles, 
Save   that   their   brains  be   warps,  their   legs   be 
spindles. 

Down,  terrier,  down !  we'll  drop  the  canine  form, 
And  incarnate  the  buzzing  insect  swarm. 
Let  us  invoke  the  BARDS — as  once  in  Wales, 
King  Edward  did — from  mountains,  swamps,  and 

vales; 

Convened  them  all,  then  broke  each  harp  and  head :  (*] 
(Would  that  our  bards  had  such  a  wise  King  Ned !) 
Let  us  invoke  them — and  as  up  they  spring, 
Shoot  them,  as  boys  shoot  crows  upon  the  wing : 
Then  shall  their  death-songs  poetize  the  blast, 
Like  dying  swan-notes,  sweet  because  the  last. 

Ah  !  vain  to  strive — inglorious  to  succeed — 
To  scotch  the  snake,  yet  not  destroy  its  breed  ; 
Small  is  the  gain  when  for  each  foe  that  falls. 


4  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

A  foe  more  mischievous  mine  eyes  appals  : 
Thus  when  the  hydra's  heads  were  struck  to  earth, 
The  dust  that  formed  them  gave  them  fresher  birth. 
Ah,  gentle  muse,  if  e'er  with  ardent  fire, 
Thou  seek'st  to  gild  our  cis-atlantic  lyre, 
How  must  thy  lips  with  heavenly  satire  smile, 
To  note  the  hands  which  now  that  harp  defile ! 
How  must  thy  gaze,  as  o'er  our  glorious  landscape 
It  roves,  from  Florida's  far  reef  to  Ann's  cape, — 
How  must  it  blink  to  mark  the  phrensied  eyes 
Of  myriad  bards  clairvoyant  through  the  skies  ! 
Oh,  hapless  land  of  mine  !  whose  country-presses 
Labor  with  poets  and  with  poetesses ; 
Where  Helicon  is  quaffed  like  beer  at  table, 
And  Pegasus  is  "  hitched  "  in  every  stable ; 
Where  each  smart  dunce  presumes  to  print  a  journal, 
And  every  journalist  is  dubbed  a  "  colonel ;" 
Where  lovesick  girls  on  chalk  and  water  thrive, 
And  prove,  by  singing,  they're  unfit  to  wive ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  K 


Where  Gray  might  Miltons  by  the  score  compute — 
"  Inglorious  "  all,  but,  ah !  by  no  means  "  mute." 

And,  whom  to  pounce  on  first  ?  0  vengeful  muse ! 
Faith,  they're  so  near  alike,  'tis  hard  to  choose. 
A  stereotyped  and  ancient  form  they  bear — 
Like  sheepskin  smallclothes  of  a  century's  wear. 
Jack  Ketch,  when  felons  are  about  to  die, 
Divides  their  garments — but  so  will  not  I ; 
Though  rainbow-hued,  like  Joseph's  coat,  their  dress, 
Should  all  exchange,  could  scarce  fit  each  one  less : 
Each  eyes  his  fellow's  garb  with  crafty  glare — 
Some  well  known  patch  he  recognizes  there  : 
Some  button  stolen  where  he  stole  his  own — 
Some  diamond-brooch,  with  ostentation  shown, 
Which  he  will  swear  is  paste,  and  in  a  trice, 
Prove  that  he  bought  one  like  it,  at  half-price. 
Motley  and  mean  in  truth  these  bipeds  be — 
A  scurvier  set  ne'er  marched  through  Coventry. 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY 


And  what  inflames  mine  anger  as  I  gaze, 

His  stolen  shreds  each  knave  with  pride  displays : 

This   one   wears   breeches   that    might   make  his 

shroud — 

This  in  a  child's  caul  his  huge  head  would  crowd ; 
This  dabbles  daintily  with  French  fabrique — 
This  wears  a  helmet  o'er  his  visage  sleek : 
All  stolen — all  misused,  and  brought  to  waste  ! 
Gods  !  if  they  must  thieve,  why  not  thieve  with  taste  ? 


But,  hold  !  are  these  in  truth  Columbia's  bards  ? — 

Do  such  assume  the  muse's  high  regards  ? 

Are  there  no  souls  where  loud  Niagara  roars  ? — 

No  hearts  on  Mississippi's  sounding  shores  ? 

Are  there  no  ears  where  tempests  rend  the  skies  ? — 

No  eyes  where  forests  gleam  with  myriad  dyes  ? 

No  harps  where  every  air  is  melody  ? — 

Are  there  no  songs  where  every  voice  is  free  ? 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  7 

List,  O,  my  muse  !  amid  the  jargon  dire 

Of  screeching  voice  and  worse  than  tuneless  lyre  ; 

'Mid  all  the  din  which  racks  our  addled  brains, 

I  hear  the  rippling  rivers  of  sweet  strains  : 

I  hear  where,  trembling  through  the  leafy  glen, 

The  poet's  soul  talks  melody  with  men  : 

I  feel  young  BRYANT — in  his  dreamy  youth — 

Anoint  my  heart  with  loveliness  and  truth  : 

I  thrill  with  HALLECK'S  ancient  clasp  of  fire, 

And  bow  my  heart  to  "  Harvard's  "  golden  lyre ; 

While  clarion  sounds  that  swing  beneath  the  stars, 

And  crashing  thoughts,  like  battling  symetars, 

Roll  round  me  from  the  mighty  harps  of  those 

Whose  songs  are  victories  over  Freedom's  foes. 

Well,  well !  it  may  be  that,  amid  the  masses 
Who  in  our  journals  write  themselves  down  asses ; 
It  may  be  there  exist  some  score  or  better 
Of  bards  as  well  in  spirit  as  in  letter. 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


With  these  I've  nought  to  do — or,  if  I  scan  them, 
To  prove  they've  brains,  it  needs  be  I  trepan  them. 
I  come  here  as  a  critic — as  a  satirist — 
Whether  I  argue  right  or  wrong,  whose  matter  is't  ? 
"  Norfolk !  we  must  have  knocks  !" — whose  head's 

not  equal 
To  the  encounter,  may  regret  the  sequel ! 

Poetry  has  its  "  amateurs  " — who  wile 
Their  listless  leisure  with  the  muse's  smile ; 
Who  simper  sweetly  in  a  Milton's  tongue, 
And  lisp  the  lofty  themes  that  Homer  sung  : 
Merely  for  pastime — really  but  in  sport — 
To  "  try  the  hand  " — or  "  keep  it  in  " — in  short 
To  show  that  if  their  own  fame  they  had  built  on, 
Homer  had  superseded  been,  and  Milton. 

Our  country  swarms  with  bards  who've  "  crossed  the 

water," 
And  think  their  native  land  earth's  meanest  quarter  : 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  9 

Bards  who  have  heard  the  gondoliers  sing  Tasso, 
Seen  Arabs  eat,  and  Indians  throw  the  lasso ; 
Men  who  have  travelled,  and  of  course  must  know 
All  sorts  of  flowers  that  on  Parnassus  grow. 
Your  "  graceful "  bards  are  these — your  "  versifiers," 
Whose  garlands  are  all  roses  and  no  briers ; 
Who  steam  to  Havre — take  the  Rhone  or  Rhine, 
Ascend  Mont  Blanc  half-way — then  stop  and  dine ; 
Muse  (just  like  Byron)  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
Quote  Rogers  freely,  prate  of  golden  skies, 
Eat  maccaroni,  ask  where  "  Peter's  keys  "  are — (a) 
Find  out  what's  meant  by  "  dead  as  Julius  Csesar ;" 
Take  notes  (on  railroads)  of  the  towns  they  ride 

through, 
(Until   they  get   the  "Traveller's  Pocket  Guide" 

through ;) 
Then    home   return,  and  (may  the   gods  forgive 

them!) 
Print  books  whose  leather  shall  at  least  outlive  them. 


10  PARNASSUS     IN     PILLORY. 

These  good  men  are  not  dangerous — no !  far  from  it, 
Though  each  esteems  himself  a  star  or  comet. 
And,  faith,  their  muse  describes  eccentric  orbits, 
As  if  their  Pegasus  had  need  of  jawbits ; 
With  foreign  "  airs  "  their  "  sales  "  are  best  inflated, 
"  Puffs  "  are  they  sure  of  who  with  wind  are  freighted ; 
Truly  your  travelled  bard  is  fortune's  favorite, 
He  sees  the  world,  and  makes  the  public  pay  for  it. 

The  PUBLIC — huge,  half-reasoning,  like  an  elephant, 
Of  its  own  good  is  half  the  time  irrelevant ; 
It  takes  on  trust  a  book  that  GRISWOLD  edits, 
And  quarterly  reviews  like  gospel  credits ; 
It  hath  an  ostrich  maw,  and  can  digest 
Sticks,  stocks,  and  stones,  and  all  with  equal  zest ; 
For  Harper's  pictured  "  Bible,"  throngs  it  his  shop, 
Or  seeks  like  mad  the  "  trial "  of  some  bishop ; 
Swallows  "  John  Donkey's  "  sad  attempts  at  humor, 
And  thinks  FROST'S  books  as  wise  as  those  of  Numa. 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


11 


But  revenons  a  nos  moutons — that's  sheep — 
Return  we  to  our — bards — who've  crossed  the  deep: 
Our  travel-poets — whom  we  well  may  call  so, 
For  he  who  reads  their  travels,  travails  also ; 
Our  cognoscenti,  whom  we  all  should  follow, 
As  cousins-german  to  the  real  Apollo ; 
Whose  muse,  in  corkscrew  curls  and  boddice  waist, 
Waltzes  or  polks,  by  finger-tips  embraced ; 
While  with  her  nose  retrousste  and  most  haughty, 
She  lisps — "  now,  Mister  Writer,  don't  be  naughty !" 

What  time  Nat  Willis,  in  the  daily  papers, 
Published  receipts  of  shoemakers  and  drapers  ;(3) 
What  time,  in  sooth,  his  "  Mirror  "  flashed  its  rays, 
Like  Barnum's  "drummond"  on  the  Broadway  gaze  ; 
When  lisping  Misses,  fresh  from  seminaries, 
Worshipped  "  mi-boy  "  and  "  brigadier  "  as  lares  ; 
When  youngsters  mad — (scribendi  cacoethes) 
Found,  that   Castalia's   stream  was   drugged   like 
Lethe's ; — 


12 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Then  BAYARD  TAYLOR — protege  of  Natty, 
Dixon-like  "  walked  "  into  the  "  literati  ;"(4) 
And  first  to  proper  use  his  genius  put, 
Like  ballet-girls,  by  showing  "  Views  a-Foot." 


TAYLOR'S  a  pushing  and  industrious  youth, 
And  so  deserves — that  I  should  tell  the  truth ; 
I  wish  him  well,  and  own  that  I'm  not  sorry  at 
His  late  great  hit,  as  Barnum's  poet-laureate  ; 
If  the  high  station  suits  his  muse,  why  let  it — 
And  for  the  prize — I  wish  that  he  may  get  it ! 
TAYLOR'S  a  youth  of  promise  and  good  sense, 
But  for  his  genius — "  it's  no  consequence !" 
He'll  do  to  oscillate  when  the  air  quite  still  is, 
'Twixt  Horace  Greeley  and  Maecenas  Willis  ; 
His  •'  knapsack  "  yarn,  however,  is  worth  unravelling, 
By  all  who'd  learn  the  cheapest  modes  of  travelling ; 
'Tis  snug,  as  down  the  glorious  Rhine  one  floats, 
To  know  one's  passage  only  costs  ten  grotes ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  13 

'Tis  nice,  while  viewing  St  Peter's,  to  be  told  I 
Can  get  good  buttered  buns  for  just  two  soldi ; 
So  TAYLOR'S  muse  presents  a  physiognomy 
Invaluable  to  lovers  of  economy. 

Here's  TUCKERMAN — calm,  sentimental,  placid — 
A  Roman  punch,  without  the  strength  or  acid, 
"While  Taylor  cheapens  fares  and  prices  lava, 
TUCKERMAN  at  "  La  Scala"  murmurs  "brava." 
A  delicate  muse  is  his — genteel,  exclusive — 
Marvelling,  no  doubt,  why  critics  are  abusive ; 
'Tis  vulgar  (as  Lord  Chesterfield  admonished) 
To  let  folks  see  us  startled  or  astonished ; 
And  T.,  (a  well-bred,  gentlemanly  poet,) 
If  he  has  feeling,  never  lets  us  know  it. 
He  sees  Niagara,  and  says — "  I  declare  !" 
Applauds  a  thunder-storm,  with — "  Pretty  fair  !" 
Reads  Milton  listlessly,  with  half-closed  lids, 
And  wonders  if  the  devil  wore  white  kids ; 


14 


PARNA88U8      IN      PILLORY 


Likes  us  to  know  that  he  has  been  to  Italy — 
Thinks  that  Vesuvius  does  eruptions  prettily ; 
Whistles  "  II  Figaro  " — quotes  scraps  of  Dante — 
A  Yankee  transcript  of  the  dilettante 

We  have  our  ballad-poets — (Lord  preserve  us !) 
Song-mongers,  sonneteers,  and  minstrels  "  nervous." 
When  "  woodman  "  MORRIS  wished  to  "  spare  that 

tree," 

Surely  no  seer's  prophetic  eyes  had  he ; 
Else  had  he  known  that  blockheads  without  number 
Would  from  his  luckless  stock  the  country  lumber ; 
Smooth,  unctuous  MORRIS — bard  and  brigadier — 
(Alas  !  that  MORRIS  can't  be  more  is  clear  ;) 
A  household  poet,  whose  domestic  muse 
Is  soft  as  milk,  and  sage  as  Mother  Goose  ; 
Whose  lyrics  (sought  for  with  a  kind  of  rabies,) 
Like  "  Sherman's  Drops,"  are  cried  for  by  the  babies. 
Ah !  luckless  bard !  why  did  his  hydra-blood 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  15 

Raise  from  our  soil  so  fierce  a  ballad-brood  ? 
Why  are  the  hapless  men  of  music-stores  (6) 
Dogged  by  a  race  of  Yankee  troubadours  ? 
Why  is  the  yardstick  slighted  for  the  lyre — 
The  pestle  melted  by  poetic  fire  ? 
Our  watchmen's  sleep  disturbed  by  vocal  woes, 
6rw/tar'd,  caterrh'd,  by  red-haired  Komeos  ? 
Why  but  because  each  whining  snob  has  learned 
How  feet  are  measured  and  how  times  are  turned ; 
Cipher  with  songs  his  master's  ledger  spoils — 
Snip  puts  to  press  his  sonnets  as  he  moils  ; 
Crispin  with  thread  poetic  waxeth  strong, 
And  Chip,  who  dovetailed  wood,  now  dovetails  song ; 
And  all  because — (forgive,  O  dread  Apollo !) 
Where  MORRIS  leads,  Tom,  Dick,  and  Hal  must 

follow  ; 

Aping  his  strain  with  throats  all  cracked  and  wheezy, 
"  If  MORRIS  sings,"  cry  they — "  sure,  singing's  easy !" 


=41 


16 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


'Tis  said  that  to  another  pen  belongs 
The  authorship  of  MORRIS'S  best  songs ; 
But  sure  am  I,  no  charity's  in  this — 
For  if  he's  not  the  author,  some  one  is ; 
Matters  it  little  who  incurs  the  name, 
Poor  human  nature  suffers  still  the  same  ! 
Some  one  first  led  (to  set  our  rhymesters  crazy) 
This  dance — (or  morris-dance,  or  not,  is  hazy  ;) 
Some  one  cried  "  Besom !"  and,  behold,  the  word 
A  thousand  watery  fiends  from  slumber  stirred  ; 
Till  now,  alas !  (as  in  the  northman's  (8)  fable,) 
To  stop  the  flood  no  human  power  is  able. 


We  have  our  Dramatists — from  "  Brutus  "  PAYNE, 
Though  BIRD,  and  CONRAD,  down  to — think  again ! 
Can  we  say  down  from  those  I  just  have  mentioned? 
(This  question's  asked  because  I'm  good-intentioned, 
And  wouldn't  for  the  world  a  quarrel  breed), 
Well,  down  to  BOKER — and  the  martial  REID, 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Who  fought  for  glory,  grub,  and  Jackson's  medal,  (7) 
And  wrote  "Love's  Martyr,"  which  he  used  to  peddle. 

I  believe  in  Uncle  Sam — I  believe  in  dollars — 
I  believe  in  mad  dogs  and  phonetic  scholars  ; 
I  believe  in  Sheba's  queen — she  of  the  bath,  whose 
Story  I've  read — I  believe  in  Corny  MATTHEWS  ; 
And  more  than  this,  I  believe  that  he  called  "Puffer," 
Than  those  who  laugh  at  him  is  ten  times  tougher. 
What  though  our  Murdoch,  rash  but  patriotic, 
Damned  native  plays  in  preference  to  exotic ; 
What  though  no  "  Witchcraft "  saved  poor  Puffer's 

name, 

And  "  Jacob  "  (8)  built  no  ladder  for  his  feme ; 
Though  adverse  fates  foredoom  his  best  intents, 
And  even  his  hits  are  chalked  as  accidents ; 
Yet  I'll  maintain,  with  all  my  heart  and  will, 
MATTHEWS  deserves  well  of  his  country  still ; 
I  trow  booksellers  are  his  worst  revilers, 


18  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

He's  barked  at  by  those  curs  ycleped  "  compilers ;" 
The  hate  of  many  honest  souls  he  bears, 
Because  his  egotism  beats  even  theirs ; 
Yet  for  their  hate,  I  hate  thee  not,  Cornelius, — 
(Faith,  for  these  things  I  like  thee — tanto  melius) — 
I  like  thee,  spite  of  all  thy  dam-ned  plays, 
Thy  "  weak  inventions  " — as  King  Richard  says — 
I  like  thee,  for  that  those  who'd  bite  thy  heel, 
First  had  good  cause  that  heel's  full  weight  to  feel ; 
I  like  thee  for  that  thou  hast  richly  flayed, 
With  good  goose-quill,  the  thin-skins  of  "  the  trade ;" 
I  like  thee  that  thou  dar'st  to  strike  and  stand 
For  "Author's  Rights  "—so  "  Puffer  "—here's  my 
hand !  (8) 

There  are  two  reeds — for  aught  1  know,  two  hundred, 
But  two,  par  excellence,  who  might  my  fun  dread ; 
There's  READ  («-d)  le  petit — bard  and  artist, 
And  REID  (i-d)  bigger,  if  not  the  smartest ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  19 

"  Poor  Scholar  "  is  the  latter's  nom  de  plume 

(Most  candid  he  this  title  to  assume)  ; 

He  wrote  a  play — (Bulwer,  some  said,  wrote  part,  or 

Shakspeare,  perhaps),  and  christened  it  "  Love's 
Martyr." 

'Twas  played — half-damn'd — and  then,  in  despera 
tion, 

The  author  sealed  its  doom — by  publication ; 

A  thing  unwise — all  men  of  sense  must  say  so : 

I've  had  a  dozen   damn'd — and  let  them  stay  so. 

REID  was  a  poet  born — I  have  his  word  on't, 

Born  in  the  Green  Isle,  though  by  no  means  verdant ; 

His  "  Broken-Hearted  "  poem — neutral-tinted — 

Wherever  REID  abides  is  always  printed ; 

He  steered  for  Hungary  (10)  ere  that  land  was  undone, 

And,  doubtless,  now  is  living  snug  in  London ; 

If  so,  the  news  ere  long  will  be  imparted, 

That  "  Punch  "  is  publishing  his  "  Broken-Hearted." 


20 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLOKY. 


Who's  next  upon  the  mimic  scene  ?     Ah,  truly, 
'Twere  well,  my  muse,  you  come  to  ENGLISH  duly. 
Griswold,  whose  voice  in  poetry's  oracular, 
Whose  awful  fiat  stamps  each  bard's  vernacular  ; 
Griswold  opines  that  TOM  ycleped  "  The  Rhymer," 
On  steep  Parnassus  yet  may  be  a  climber, 
And  proves  by  one  most  nautical  "  Ben  Bolt," 
That  "  Donkey-John"  's  of  Pegasus  a  colt ;  (") 
I'll  not  deny — for  they  may  read  who  run — 
That  by  DUNN  ENGLISH  is  the  English  done ; 
-His  "  Bolt "  may  bar  Griswoldian  criticism, 
But  I  must  scan  him  through  a  Satire's  prism  ; 
So  without  gloves,  and  yet  no  thought  to  knuckle, 
With  "  Don  Key  Haughty  "  for  a  space  I'll  buckle. 

This  "  Rhymer's  "  critic-lash,  in  sooth  they  tell  us, 
Cuts  like  a  knout — (i'faith,  my  muse  grows  jealous ;) 
Surnamed  "The  Bitter"  he — his  threatening  growl, 
Greeting  young  Orpheus  like  a  Cerberus-howl — 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  21 

(Young  Orpheus  fresh  from  college  or  the  counter, 
With  harp  in  hand,  to  catch  a  muse  and  mount  her ;) 
A  critic  he,  whose  "  cut-and-slash  "  is  mighty, 
A  bard  whose  flights  it  must  be  owned  are  flighty ; 
A  dramatist  whose  tragic  muse  has  flitted, 
Proud  o'er  the  pit — but  only  to  be  pitied ! 

I  pr'ythee,  Tom,  what  mill  supplies  thy  paper  ? 
What  gas-house  furnishes  thy  **  midnight  taper  ?" 
Hast  thou  Briareus'  arms,  or,  with  antennae, 
Dost  grasp  a  thousand  pens,  to  turn  a  penny  ? 
I  heard  a  speech  to-day — 'twas  ENGLISH  wrote  it, 
The  journal's  leader — they  from  ENGLISH  quote  it ; 
I  bought  a  book — DUNN  ENGLISH  on  the  cover ; 
I  sung  a  song — lo !  ENGLISH  as  a  lover. 
Lawyer,  and  doctor,  farmer,  bard,  and  playwright, 
0,  motley  Tom !  in  one  thing,  pr'ythee,  stay  right ! 
Waste  not  thyself  pursuing  shadowy  vapors, 
Cut  not  thy  real  work — but  cut  thy  capers ! 


22  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Shape  for  thy  Future's  years  some  work  whose  might 
Shall  mock  the  tasks  which  now  thy  powers  invite  ; 
Strike  the  brave  harp  for  man — or  break  its  strings  ; 
For  Heaven  hears  only  when  a  full  heart  sings. 

Here's  Byron-BoKER,  with  a  slight  mustache : 
Be  careful,  pen !  attempt  no  combat  rash ; 
Else,  with  a  rage  that  shall  o'erwhelin  ev'n  yours, 
BOKER  may,  Byron-like,  review  reviewers. 
Yet,  in  good  sooth,  perhaps  for  BOXER'S  sake, 
'Twere  well  to  rouse  the  lion  with  a  shake  ; 
Byron,  when  flogged,  eschewed  his  schoolboy  trash, 
Who  knows  but  BOKER— faith  !  I'll  try  the  lash. 

Now,  'pon  my  sacred  word — 'tis  with  a  sigh 

I  lift  the  flagellating  rods  on  high ; 

Like  the  stern  Trappist  strike  I — though  afresh 

At  every  blow,  bleed  my  own  tender  flesh  ; 

Chastening  whom  most  we  love,  we  can't  be  mild, 

Lest,  whilst  we  "spare  the  rod,"  we  "spoil  the  child." 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  23 

BORER'S  a  young  man  still — he  wrote  Calaynos, 
For  a  young  man  'twas  not  a  crime  too  heinous ; 
There's  a  rich  vein  of  bloodshed  running  through  it — 
(The  pit  at  "  Sadler's  Wells  "  took  kindly  to  it ;)  (ia) 
Next  he  exhumed — I  mean,  he  took  from  Hume, 
A  headless  tale  of  bride  and  Bluebeard  groom ; 
And  last,  to  show  the  Public  how  he  braved  it, 
Brought  "The  Betrothal"  out — and  barely  saved  it. 
His  verse  is  well  enough — smooth,  classic,  measured — 
(Addison's  style  is  one  that  should  be  treasured ;) 
True,  there's  no  life  where  art  the  subject  warps, 
But,  as  the  crones  say,  "  'tis  a  handsome  corpse  ;" 
BOKER  of  bards  is  not  the  first  nor  last, 
He's  growing — haply,  though,  he  grows  too  fast ; 
If  poets  seek  the  muse's  bright  empyrean, 
They'll  first  do  well  to  reach  the  heart's  criterion ; 
Lay  their  foundation  on  good  rocks — not  water — 
Then  build  like  Cheops — if  they've  bricks  and  mortar; 
So  BOKER — if  he'll  mind  me  to  the  letter, 


24  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

(I  can  advise,  because  I  write  much  better,) 
Will  tear  to  shreds  his  bookish  rules,  and  write, 
As  Corny  Matthews  does,  with  all  his  might ; 
Then,  if  he  charms  not  all  the  public  noddles, 
We'll  know  it  is  his  own  fault,  not  his  model's. 

BOKER'S  in  Philadelphia — Matthew  Carey 
Sold  books  in  that  "  Emporium  Literary  ;" 
Big  newspapers  and  Ladies'  Magazines 
Are  published  there  ;  the  markets  furnish  greens 
Much  earlier  than  those  of  northern  cities  ; 
There  flourish  puffs  poetic,  and  love-ditties ; 
"  Colonel  Fitzgerald  "  prints  the  "  City  Item," 
And  rowdies  find  that  juries  won't  indict  'em. 

I  know  not  why — and  surely  'tis  a  pity, 
The  pen  is  penury  in  Penn's  great  city  ; 
Songs   make   a   man   sans  all  things — nay,  what 
worse  is, 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  25 

Verse,  in  an  adverse  ratio,  brings  reverses. 
Would  the  poor  author  live  by  books,  perchance  he 
Will  find  that  Grub-street  is  no  thing  of  fancy ; 
Does   he   serve  Graham  ?      "  Graham   bread n  he 

shares ; 

Toils  he  for  Godey  ?  many  a  goad  he  bears ; 
Would  he  the  editorial  tripod  court  ? 
Newspaper  columns  will  no  roof  support. 
Ah,  luckless  wretch  !  wouldst  thou  escape  a  hovel? 
Edit  "  Paul  Pry,"  or  write  a  "  blood-red  "  novel ; 
Eschew  all  modesty — let  sense  go  hang : 
Write  shilling  legends  for  the  "  Idler  "  gang  ; 
Argue  like  mad,  some  question  undisputed ; 
Swear  you're  a  heaven-born  genius  persecuted; 
Mix  in  due  quantities  your  brass  and  lead, 
And  "  swap  "  the  "  bogus  "  for  your  daily  bread ! 
Then  shall  each  peddling  bookman  call  you  "Nepos," 
Your  name  be  bless'd  in  "  Literary  Depots." 


26  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Amid  the  Babel-tongues  of  Philadelphia, 
There's  one  young  man  who  always  gains  himself  ear : 
Tolerably  'cute,  though  not  at  all  ^ood-looking, 
Books,  birds,  pies,  poems,  he's  expert  in  cooking ; 
To-day  he'll  read  his  "  greatest "  poem,  for  your 
Especial  good — anon,  he'll  be  your  lawyer ; 
One  day,  as  "  Harry  Harkaway,"  he'll  shoot  you 
As  many  quails  or  reedbirds  as  may  suit  you ; 
The  next,  discourse  upon  the  arts  or  music, 
Until  he  prattles  both  himself  and  you  sick ; 
Or  till  he  proves,  in  every  subject  pitched  on, 
That  earth  boasts  one  more  "  admirable  Crichten."  (") 

"  Endymion  !"  may  his  pipe  still  keep  its  tune ! 
Endymion — HIRST,  who  sleeps  beneath  the  moon  ; 
With  "  Blackstone"  pillowing  his  majestic  head,(u) 
That  head  which,  all  unlike  his  works,  is  red ; 
Cold  HIRST — who  says  he  "  never  feels  a  line 
He  sings  " — (his  readers  believe  him,  O  ye  Nine  !) 


PARNASSUS     IN      PILLOEY.  27 

Time  was  when,  dormant  in  the  stripling's  breast, 
Trochee  was  silent — mute  was  anapaest ; 
Time  was,  ere  luckless  Helicon  he  drank, 
When  all  his  verses,  like  his  briefs,  were  blank ; 
His  thoughts  unnumbered,  noteless  all  his  time, 
And  dull-set  as  his  voice  his  dulcet  rhyme ; 
But  chance,  or  circumstance,  or  whimsic  fate, 
By  curious  accidents  makes  mortals  great ; 
And  thus  it  chanced,  or  came  to  pass,  in  sooth, 
That  Sully  painted  "  Shakspeare  in  his  youth  ;" 
With  "  hyacinth  hair  "  and  beard  of  amber  hue, 
Expansive  brow,  and  eyes  half-brown,  half-blue. 
HIRST  was  a  connoisseur  in  painting  then, 
And  Sully's  picture  met  his  critic  ken ; 
The  young  man  murmurs,  starts,  and  rubs  his  eyes : 
Egad  !  the  portrait  takes  him  by  surprise  ; 
The  brow  he  marks — the  amber  beard  he  sees, 
"  Shakspeare  and  I,"  he  cries,  "  are  like  as  peas  !" 


28  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

In    truth,    "'twas    passing   strange,"  the   stripling 

thought, 

Such  "  counterfeit  presentment "  here  was  wrought : 
Endymion's  embryo — Avon's  mighty  bard — 
Which  sat  to  Sully,  faith,  to  tell  was  hard. 
Pregnant,  no  doubt,  of  some  tremendous  fame, 
One's  hair  was  red — and  t'other's  much  the  same ; 
That  lofty  brow— that  nose — "  By  all  the  Nine !" 
Cries  HIRST,  "  His  locks  are  hyacinth — so  are  mine  ! 
If  thus  kind  Nature  marks  her  duplicate, 
Egad !  I'll  take  to  poems,  and  be  great ; 
I'll  write  till  none  shall  know  which  bard  is  which, 
Shakspeare  may  die — but  there's  a  vacant  niche ; 

And "  Lo !  Parnassus  heard  the  dread  resolve  : 

HIRST  lives !  the  Future  will  his  fame  evolve ! 

This  satirizing's  tedious — though  I  force  not 
The  reader  to  endure  it — O,  of  course  not ! 
Pm  satisfied  they'll  read  it  whom  I  quiz, 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  29 

And  those  not  named  will  read  to  see  who  is ; 
Be  glad,  then,  friends,  whose  genius  is  not  known — 
Be  glad  my  work's  not  still-born  like  your  own ; 
Since  through  my  potent  pen  you'll  gain,  in  verity, 
Mention  at  least  in  most  remote  posterity. 

Posterity  !  the  race  of  fools  and  dummies, 

Who'll    crowd    the    Future    with    the    Present's 

mummies ; 
Who'll  read  my  books  and  hundreds  worse  than 

mine, 

And  swear  each  mouldering  author  was  divine ; 
While  in  their  very  midst — unknown  or  spurned — 
Dwell  mightier  minds  than  all  the  Past  inurned. 
Posterity — I  count  your  praise  and  blame, 
For  all  the  good  they'll  do  me,  much  the  same  ; 
You'll  give  ten  dollars  for  my  autograph  ; 
(Which  now  in  Wall  street  will  not  bring  the  half) ; 
Yet  even  this  tribute  should  not  make  me  vain — 


30 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Great  Barnum's  signature  may  twenty  gain ; 
O,  golden  goal !  O,  prize  to  fire  the  soul, 
Posterity  may  all  the  Smiths  enrol ! 

Now  will  plump  platitude,  with  pitying  smile, 

Point  me  to  history's  teeming  minster-aisle — 

Show  me  the  tombs  and  effigies  of  men 

Who  wrought  their  memories  with  the  glorious  pen  ; 

With  magpie  glibness  prate  each  deathless  name, 

And  cry,  "behold!  Posterity  and  Fame !" 

O,  bitter  jest  that  marks  with  marble  lie 

The  lowly  earth  where  genius  sank  to  die ; 

O,  mocking  sympathy,  which  shrines  the  dead, 

Yet  spurns  the  living  with  unheeding  tread. 


Great  heaven  !  could  Intellect  its  wrongs  disclose, 
Vain,  vain  the  gauge  that  measures  mortal  woes ; 
All  sighs,  all  tears,  were  powerless  to  declare 
The  almighty  griefs  which  one  poor  soul  can  bear ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  31 

Behold,  the  Athenian  sage  his  hemlock  drains, 
And,  mark,  the  Roman  opes  his  withered  veins ; 
Lo !  from  the  Pisan's  breast  how  torture  chokes 
The  lie,  which  straight  his  stouter  soul  revokes ! 
Look,  where  Geneva  mocks  a  martyr's  cries,  (") 
Or  Srnithfield's  flames  in  lurid  horror  rise  ! 
Behold  ! — yet  vainly  by  the  gleaming  axe, 
By  galling  chains,  by  dungeons,  fagots,  racks — 
Vainly  ye  strive  to  measure  or  reveal 
A  passing  shade  of  what  the  soul  can  feel. 
Not  poison  tortured  Socrates,  alone  : 
He  saw  the  altars  of  his  faith  o'erthrown ; 
The  chains  that  crushed  poor  Galileo's  frame, 
Were  weak  to  those  which  sank  his  soul  in  shame ! 
Monarchs  may  lose  their  thrones,  yet  life  retain : 
Genius  dethroned  ne'er  lifts  her  brow  again. 

0,  Mind !  immortal  in  thy  suffering ! — Heart ! 
Which  of  all  agony  true  kindred  art ! 


'"V  ^T:.;  "-  '  *»  .-< 

82  PARNASSUS     IN      PILLORY. 

How  would  my  feeble  pen  drop  bloody  tears, 
Could  it  but  chronicle  the  Soul's  sad  years ; 
Could  it  but  marshal  from  their  nameless  graves, 
The  helot-host  of  intellectual  slaves  ; 
The  unnumbered  martyrs  to  the  Titan's  fate, 
Which  dooms  to  suffering  him  who  would  create. 
Through  the  soul's  desert  backward  as  we  turn, 
How  much  of  power — of  impotence — we  learn ! 
What  glorious  love  is  mingled  with  what  lust — 
What  awful  monuments  we  meet — what  dust ! 
Souls  that  held  heaven  within  their  cherub  clasp, 
Dragged  downwards  by  an  earthly  demon's  grasp ; 
And  seraph  minds  that  read  the  Eternal's  throne, 
Like  shivered  stars  o'er  brooding  chaos  strown. 

But  hold !  I'm  far  too  serious,  and  must  bring 
My  Phoebus-team  demurely  to  the  ring  : 
The  ring  where  each  one  treads  the  other's  track, 
And  Truth,  the  clown,  is  jeered  by  all  the  pack ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


33 


Satire,  plain  satire,  is  my  avocation  : 
Points  are  my  periods — puns  my  peroration. 

The  British  critics — be  it  to  their  glory, 
When  they  abuse  us,  do  it  con  amore  ; 
There's  no  half-way  about  your  bulldog  pure, 
And    there's    no    nonsense    with    your    "  Scotch 

reviewer." 
Heaven  knows  how  often  we've  been  whipped  like 

curs, 

By  those  to  whom  we've  knelt  as  worshippers  ; 
Heaven  only  knows  how  oft,  like  froward  chitlings, 
Our  authors  have  been  snubbed  by  British  witlings  ; 
Our  mountains  ranked  as  mole-hills — our  immense 
And  awful  forests  styled  "  Virginny  fence  ;" 
Our  virtues  all  but  damned  with  faintest  praise, 
And  our  faults  blazoned  to  the  widest  gaze ! 
I  find  no  fault  with  them — they  praise  us  rarely  ; 
As  for  abuse — we're  open  to  it  fairly ; 


34  PARNASSUS     IN     PILLORY. 

But  faith,  it  galls  me,  and  I'll  not  deny  it, 
To  mark  our  own  most  deferential  quiet ; 
To  note  the  whining,  deprecative  air 
With  which  we  beg  for  praise,  or  censure  bear; 
Shrink  back  in  terror  if  our  gifts  they  spurn, 
And  if  they  smite  one  cheek,  the  other  turn ; — • 
Begging  that  they'll  excuse  a  patient  dunce, 
Who,  if  he  could,  would  offer  both  at  once. 

There's  no  use  in  denying  it — the  Yankee 
(Though  in  the  way  of  business,  cute  and  cranky ; 
Though  true  as  steel,  and  quick  as  any  rocket), 
Is  seldom  keenly  touched,  save  through  his  pocket. 
One  war  more  bloody,  even,  than  dishonest, 
We'd   'scaped,   had    "  Montezuma's   Halls "   been 

non  est ; — 

Our  Indian  raids  had  ne'er  brought  shame  or  glory, 
Had  not  old  Plutus  whispered  "  territory." 
And  many  a  wrong,  I'll  wager,  would  be  righted ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  35 

And  many  a  right  would  have  its  wrongs  requited  ; 
And  many  a  truth  from  error's  cloud  would  flash, — 
Could  we  be  sure  such  things  would  "pay"  in  "cash." 
But,  as  regards  our  books,  and  those  who  make  them, 
For  all  our  country  cares,  the  de'il  may  take  them  : 
Matters  it  little  to  our  sapient  statesmen, 
What  power  annihilates,  or  what  creates  men ; 
So  that  with  "  congress-prog  "  you  duly  ply  'em 
'* Gin  gratis — and  eight  dollars  each  per  diem"  (16) 

Now,  by  my  troth — if  these  same  legislators 
Were  called,  point-blank,  a  set  of  heartless  traitors ; 
Willing  to  sell  their  country's  fame  for  fat  hire, — 
They'd  doubtless,  cry,  "  You  lie !"  (1T)  to  this,  my 

satire. 

Yet,  if  they  sleep  and  snore,  whilst,  unawares, 
The  enemy  in  our  goodly  field  sows  tares ; 
If  watch  nor  ward  they  keep  upon  our  borders, 
Pray,  can  they  well  be  called  efficient  warders  ? 


36  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

How,  then,  if  broadcast  o'er  our  land  reprinted, 
Books  of  all  climes  are  strown  with  hand  unstinted ; 
Books  such  as  sap  our  freedom's  dearest  life, 
Books  with  the  cant  of  kings  and  Jesuits  rife ; 
Books  such  as  virtuous  wives  would  blush  to  name, 
Books  that  destroy  a  maiden's  sense  of  shame ! 
How,  then,  if  on  the  plastic  mind  of  youth, 
Falsehood  is  grafted  in  the  place  of  truth  ; 
False  taste  infused — false  views  of  right  and  wrong, 
False  love,  false  law,  false  sermons,  and  false  song  ! 

:''"'.''.  '-       '  '  '.  V'_-'    .  ',••"" .'  :'»'    ,''%/•  '    •    '  ,  •' 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  that  all  these  ills 
Flow  from  the  poisoned  points  of  foreign  quills ; 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  shield  from  righteous  scorn, 
The  race  of  blackguard  authors  native-born  ; 
Wretches,  who,  ghoul-like,  feed  on  carrion  clay, 
And  scent  a  crime  as  vultures  scent  their  prey ; 
Whose  leprous  minds  can  track  a  felon's  course  ; 
Or  trace  a  harlot's  vices  to  their  source ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  37 

Scarce  can  these  men  demand  my  reprobation, 
Thank  heaven !  their  works  are  their  own  sure  dam 
nation. 

I  say,  not,  then,  that  foreign  pens  alone 

Inflict  the  moral  wrongs  'neath  which  we  groan ; 

But,  tell  me,  ye  who  do  our  thinking  for  us, 

Whom  ballot-boxes  kindly  station  o'er  us ; 

Tell  us  if  evils  such  as  represented, 

Might  not,  by  timely  laws,  have  been  prevented ;: — 

Tell  us  if  Reynolds,  Paul  de  Kock,  or  Sand, 

Would  e'er  have  gained  a  foothold  in  our  land, 

If  ribald  wit,  or  senseless  atheism, 

Could  e'er  have  charmed  us  with  delusive  prism ; 

Had  our  good  Yankee  "  publishers  at  sight," 

Been  forced  to  buy  "  the  author's  copyright." 

Why  has  our  yellow-covered  literature  ~ 

Poured  o'er  the  land  its  influence  impure  ? 

Why,  but  because  'twas  "  cheap  " — its  profits  sure  ! 


33  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Why  was  the  infamous  De  Kock  translated, 
And  cast  abroad  with  rankest  poison  freighted  ? 
Why,  but  because  our  bookmen  "  speculated !" 
On  what  ?     On  manners,  morals,  virtue,  sense ! 
Souls  might  be  lost — but  bookmen   turned  their 
pence! 

Oh,  Justice  !  why  are  still  thine  altars  rotten  ? — 
Could  Intellect  protected  be,  like  cotton  ; 
Could  Mind  beget  per  cent.,  like  capital, — 
Then  might  we  be  what  else  we  never  shall ; 
Then  would  our  heaven-appointed  "  men  of  letters  " 
Be  freed  from  iron  want's  degrading  fetters ; 
Then  might  the  thoughts  of  noble  souls  illume 
The  poor  man's  hut,  the  rich  man's  drawing-room ; 
While,  from  the  light  its  filth  could  ne'er  endure, 
Would  shrink  our  "  yellow-covered  literature  !" 
But,  ah !  while  Bulwer,  Dickens,  James,  or  Jerrold, 
Costs  scarcely  more  than  Bennett's  "double  Herald ;" 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  39 

How  can  we  hope  our  country's  mind  to  nourish, 
Or  look  for  Yankee  literature  to  flourish  ? 

Oh,  "  Yankee  literature  !"  Oh,  tripe  !  Oh,  treacle ! 

What  can  I  say  our  publishers  to  tickle  ? 

How  shall  I  make  my  humblest,  prettiest  bow, 

To  deprecate  their  rage,  and  'scape  a  row  ? 

Oh,  HARPER  !  mayor !  temperance-man !  church- 
member  ! 

Our  household-prop — our  hearth-stone's  brightest 
ember; 

What  could  we  do  without  thy  mammoth-presses  ? 

Thy  Grub — no  !  Cliff-street's  hasty-pudding  messes ! 

/ 

'Tis  no  man's  fault — (I  clear  friend  Harper  of  it), 

That  foreign  books  are  cheap,  and  pay  a  profit ; 

He  did  not  hire  Dumas,  or  Paul  de  Kock, 

To  jest  at  truth — at  decency  to  mock ; 

A  publisher  who'd  mend  his  country's  morals, 


40  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLOKY. 

With  his  own  bread  and  butter  madly  quarrels. 
He's  not  to  know  if  books  work  ill  or  well — 
The  question  he  must  ask,  is — "  will  they  sell  ?" 
And  if  to-day  he  prints  a  moral  libel, 
To-morrow  squares  the  account — he  prints  a  bible  ! 

And  here,  Oh,  Virtue  !  which  art  daily  shamed, 
Oh,  Honesty  !  which  scarcely  now  art  named  ! 
Oh,  Truth  !  which  art  the  veil  of  direst  wrong, 
Give  me  to  plead  your  cause  in  this  my  song ! 
Shall  FOSTER  prostitute  a  graceful  -pen, 
To  "  slice  up  "  outcast  hags,  and  outlawed  men  ? 
Shall  "  BUNTLINE  "  rave,  and  WILKES  his  "  pigeons  " 

lure, 

And  Ann-street's  presses  swell  the  common-sewer  ? 
Shall  ribald  sheets  their  pandering  pimps  engage, 
While  Mose  and  Jakey  prop  a  crumbling  stage  ; 
Shall  "  these  things  be,"  and  yet  nor  voice  nor  pen, 
Scourge  as  with  snakes  the  morals  and  the  men  ? 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  41 

No !  though  I  loathe  the  quarry — let  me  speed 
One  shaft  at  least  against  the  scorpion  breed ! 

Upas !  thy  deadly  venom  hath  but  the  art 
To  chill  the  warmth  of  some  poor  human  heart ! 
Plague !  thou  canst  blister  flesh  and  torture  limb, 
'Till  the  pulse  slackens  and  the  eye  grows  dim  ; 
Simoom  !  thy  blast,  swift-scouring  o'er  the  plain, 
May  fire  the  blood  and  scorch  the  withering  brain  ! 
But  ye  are  bounded  in  your  fearful  power, 
Your  field  the  limits  of  life's  little  hour  ; 
Trembles  your  empire  on  each  fleeting  breath, 
Your  pangs,  your  perils,  have  their  term  in  death  ! 

Not  so  the  Upas  of  a  venal  PRESS, — 
The  Plague — the  Simoom — of  licentiousness ; 
Weak  is  the  death  to  mortal  sense  confined, 
That  only  kills  which  kills  the  immortal  mind ! 


42 


PARNASSUS     IN     PILLORY. 


Poison  and  Pest  can  but  the  clay  control : 
An  impure  Press  hath  power  to  slay  the  soul ! 

O,  matron  !  kneeling  by  thy  slumbering  child, 
Dare  not  to  hope  his  mind  is  undefiled. 
List !  in  his  restless  dreams  his  thoughts  betray 
What  books  he  reads  by  stealth  from  day  to  day ; 
Hush  !  is  it  "  Crusoe  "  from  his  lips  that  falls  ? 
No !  "  Ellen  Jewett "  (1B)  his  sleeping  sense  recalls. 
O,  maiden  !  speak  !  why  now  that  volume  crush 
Beneath  thy  pillow  ? — why  that  conscious  blush  ? 
Fearest  thou  the  book  may  shame  a  mother's  eye  f 
God  help  thee,  maiden !  there  is  danger  nigh ! 


And  ye  who  pander — ye  whose  reeking  souls, 
No  love  refines — no  law  nor  shame  controls  ; 
Ye  on  whose  tongues  the  words  of  virtue  dwell, 
While  in  your  hearts  distil  the  dews  of  hell ! 
Ye  moral  scavengers — who  drag  each  sink 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  43 

For  food — whose  hearts  are  blacker  than  your  ink  ; 
Tremble  !   the  crimes  which  ye  to  strength  have 

nursed, 
Shall,  through   your   children,  make   you  doubly 

cursed ! 

Avaunt  the  theme !     O  Pegasus  the  skittish ! 
Return  we  to  our  critic  friends — the  British ; 
The  British,  whom  our  universal  nation 
Whips  each  July-the-Fourth  in  loud  oration : 
The  British,  whose  worm-eaten  statutes  rule  us, 
Whose  precedents  decide — whose  models  school  us ; 
Whose  nod  we  bow  to — whose  award  we  fight  for  ; 
Whose  stamp  our  actors  seek — our  authors  write  for. 
True,  we  have  beaten  Bull  in  many  a  battle — 
But  then  Bull  beats  us  in  his  Durham  cattle  ; 
True,  we  have   plucked  from  him  old  Neptune's 

trident, 
But  then  his  "  Punch."  can  give  our  ribs  a  sly  dint ; 


44  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

So,  though  we  could  with  greatest  ease  outstrip  her, 
His  lugger  makes  a  tender  of  our  clipper  ! 

I'm  far  from  wishing,  fellow  bards,  to  plague  you, 
But,  faith,  'tis  fun  to  note  your  Anglo-ague ; 
To  see  you  march,  manoeuvre,  crawl,  or  leap, — 
Dance  or  lie  down,  sing,  curse,  pray,  laugh,  or  weep ; 
Just  as  the  wires  which  rule  your  changes  antic, 
Are  pulled  by  merry-andrews  transatlantic. 
I  must  not  laugh — no  !  I'll  espouse  your  quarrel! 
(Heaven  knows  ye  can't  afford  to  lose  one  laurel !) 
They  say  (a  wicked  libel  this  of  course  is), 
They  say  ye  steal,  O  bards,  from  British  sources. 

'Tis  monstrous !  what !  shall  British  critics  prate, 
Of  plagiaries — and  say  we  imitate  ? 
Who  dares  assert  that  Keats  was  read  by  HIRST, 
Or  "  TIBIA  "  by  his  mother  well  was  nursed  ? 
Who  so  foolhardy  as  to  hint  that  Moore 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY 


45 


Wrote  HOFFMAN'S  melodies  ten  years  before  ? 
Who   says  that  SARGENT   strips  Corneille's  poor 

"  Old," 

That  BENJAMIN  in  Camoens  once  was  hid ; 
That  EMERSON,  like  Coleridge,  reads  the  Germans, 
And  DAWES'S  poem&  sound  like  Taylor's  sermons  ? 
Who   says  LUNT'S   lead   with  Byron's   gold  was 

soldered  ? — 
That   Wordsworth    dribbles   through   meandering 

STGDDARD? 

.  Or  who  affirms  that  Harvard  grants  its  benison 
To  those  alone  who  canonize  Saint — Tennyson  2 

I've  mentioned  READ  ;  his  song  is  very  well, 
Maugre  its  "  miner  "  key  in  "  Hazeldell ;" 
I've  heard  his  puns  full  oft  use  common  sense  ill, 
And  had  my  likeness  taken  by  his  pencil ; 
Soft  "  T.  B.  R."— the  "  tibia  "  of  our  wits — 
Whose  delicate  muse  on  fairy  footsteps  flits ; 


46  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

The  "  Doric  "  READ  who  in  his  paint-shop  wooes 
With  dainty  food,  his  sentimental  muse : 
Tempts  her  with  titbits  from  a  thousand  "marts,"  (:9) 
The  tongues  of  nightingales  and  cuckoos'  hearts  ; 
Trembles,  and  faints,  and  dies,  in  every  line, 
And  draws  the  web  of  fancy — superfine  ; 
Paints  a  new  blush  upon  the  damask  rose, 
And  o'er  its  leaves  some  rare  patchoulie  throws ; 
Tears  off  the  G  string  from  his  pretty  harp, 
And  strikes  the  flat  notes  rather  than  the  sharp  : 
Fearful  of  falls,  his  wings  he  would  control, 
And  doffs  the  Spartan  for  the  Sybarite  soul.  (90) 

God  made  the  POET  for  his  instrument : 

His  harp,  his  heart,  are  never  given — but  lent ; 

And  all  that  heaven  requires  for  rental-fee, 

Is  to  give  harp  and  heart  their  natural  key. 

TIBIA  !  thy  song  is  like  thy  body — little : 

Thy  fame,  I  fear  me,  like  thy  friendships — brittle  : 


PARNA88U8     IN      PILLORY. 


47 


Wouldst  them  be  honored  ?  drop  thy  quibbling  quill, 
Eschew  thy  love,  dove,  dart,  and  daffodil ; 
Fling  'mid  the  stars  thy  songs,  if  bard  thou  art, 
Or  sink  them  in  the  wondrous  human  heart : 
Then  mayst  thou  soar  among  the  immortal  few — 
In  spite  of  satires — or  the  "  Whig  Review."  (") 


Speaking  of  stars,  attend,  0  muse  most  pliant, 
To  our  acknowledged  loadstar — Mister  BRYANT  ! 
Whose  powers  I've  always  viewed  with  school-boy 

deference, 

As  far  as  earliest  school-boy  dates  have  reference ; 
Whose  flights  I've  marked  as  most  etherial  things, 
Sure  that  he  used  no  Cretan's  waxen  wings ; 
Whose  shrine  I've  knelt  at,  in  true  orthodoxy, 
Certain  the  bard  was  Dan  Apollo's  proxy. 
My  fingers  tremble,  and  my  pulse  grows  faint ; 
Awful  the  task  a  noonday  sun  to  paint ! 
Fain  would  I  praise  this  laureate  of  our  nation, 


48  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Were  not  all  praise  but  supererogation  ; 

He  is  so  fixed  a  fact — so  constellated — 

Like  bankrupts'  debts,  he  can't  be  overrated  : 

His  name's  a  sad,  sponsorial  misnomer — 

Had  nature  spoken,  he'd  been  christened — Homer. 

What  time  our  presidential  politics 
Count  game  much  less  by  honors  than  by  tricks ; 
When  Rynders  wields,  like  Hercules,  his  "  club,"  (22) 
And  social  Greeley  peeps  from  cynic  tub, — 
Then  BRYANT — poet -laureate — nature's  boast — 
Treads  the  old  party-lines,  from  Post  to  Post ;  (") 
New-nibs  his  pen  to  brand  new  truth  as  schism, 
And  damns  all  isms,  but  safe  conservatism. 

Now,  by  my  modesty  !  I  like  friend  BRYANT  : 
But  as  a  man :  I  can't  endure  a  giant : 
I  like  his  landscapes — mountains,  woods,  and  copses, 
And  freely  own,  he's  "  death  on  "  Thanatopsis  ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  49 

But,  with  due  deference,  I  can  see  no  justice 
In  making  him  a  classical  Procrustes ;  (a4) 
And  lopping  hapless  bards  of  heel  and  head, 
To  fit  them  for  his  gas-inflated  bed. 
I  thank  him  kindly  for  his  blankest  verse — 
I've  seen  much  better — but  I've  seen  still  worse  ; 
I  bless  him  for  his  homoeopathic  stanzas — 
His  apophthegma,  clear  as  Sancho  Panza's  ; 
I'll  own  in  fact  he's  Brobclignagian — but, 
Just  so  was  Gulliver — in  Lilliput ! 
Yet  will  I  grant  that  he  a  new  Antaeus  is —  (8B) 
But,  "  gracious !  Max !" — no  apotheosis  ! 

In  the  old  time — the  time  that  never  tarries — 
We  owned  a  bard  who  sang  of  Mark  Bozzaris  : 
Bozzaris  is  no  more — and  dead  is  Astor — 
I  wish  the  last  had  ne'er  been  HAI.LECK'S  master. 
Trade,  like  Medusa,  turns  the  heart  to  stone, 
And  jarring  sounds  destroy  the  harp's  sweet  tone. 


50 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Figures  our  bard  still  hath,  but  tropes  I  doubt, 
Invoices  plenty,  but  no  voice  comes  out. 
Bozzaris  died  by  steel,  but  gold  could  slay 
The  man  through  whom  Bozzaris  lives  for  aye ; 
Astor  was  mightier  than  the  dreaming  "  Turk," 
JRequicscat  in  pace — Astor's  clerk  ! 


Where  is  PARK  BENJAMIN  ?  In  sooth,  'tis  wond'rous, 
He  sings  not — yet  the  stones  are  silent  under  us ! 
Where  is  that  bard  whose  madrigals  in  Gotham, 
Took  root  so  deep  that  still  the  newsboys  know  them  ? 
Where  are  his  sonnets,  and  his  songs  rhapsodical, 
That  whilorne  graced  each  infant  periodical  ? 
Once  (when  a  hero  none  presumed  to  doubt  him) 
He  failed  with  journals — now  they  fail  without  him  ; 
Once,  as  a  sort  of  editorial  Warwick,  (ae) 
He  built  up  paper  thrones — "  alas  !  poor  Yorick !" 
Where  is  he  now  ?     I'll  give — my  word  upon  it — 
This  book  (when  finished)  for  his  "last,  best  sonnet." 


PARNASSUS     IN     PILLORY.  51 

Room  for  our  "  Lakers !" — O,  sweet  Winder-mere ! 
Surely  the  winds  do  waft  thine  essence  here. 
List  the  Home  Journal — Fashion's  weekly  creditor ! 
We  must  make  room  for  STODDARD  !  cries  its  editor. 
STOOD  ARD  we  will :  if  Nat  be  thine  example, 
Thou'lt  need  in  truth  an  area  most  ample : 
Room  where  the  banyan  growth  of  self-conceit 
May  twine  its  downward  branches  round  thy  feet : 
Room  where  the  ghosts  of  time  and  talent  slain, 
Like  afreets  damn'd,  shall  haunt  thy  desert  brain.(2T) 
If  Nat's  high  patronage  thy  muse  would  try, 
Room  thou  wilt  have — like  Uncle  Toby's  fly ; 
But  if,  in  bold  reliance  on  thyself, 
Thou  layest  thy  maudlin  seniors  on  the  shelf^ 
If  with  the  Orphean  lute  thou  fingerest  well, 
Thou'lt  dare  the  flames  of  even  a  critic's  hell,— (") 
Reckless  of  Duyckinck — braving  Griswold's  doom — 
Then  may  the  world  award  thy  genius  "room !" 


52  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

What  time  some  British  critic  lost  his  dinner, 
CHARLES   FENNO  HOFFMAN   was   reviewed,   (poor 

sinner !) 

To  whom  he  may  this  peril  of  his  neck  owe 
I  know  not— only  that  they  called  him  "  Echo ;"  (3B) 
And  he  (to  prove  such  cruel  critics  wrong) 
Published  anew  a  budget  of  his  song. 
Ah,  luckless  man  !     Had  he  but  burnt — not  printed, 
lie  might  those  wags  have  nicely  circumvented. 

Alas,  poor  HOFFMAN  !     Griswold  thinks  his  lyrics 
Equal  to  Waller's  "  richest  "  songs,  or  Herrick's  !  (80) 
If  this  be  true,  O  Rufe  !  which  thou  assurest, 
T  hope  I'll  see  of  neither  bard  his  poorest. 
Ah,  Doctor  Griswold !    I've  a  shrewd  suspicion, 
That  HOFFMAN  owes  to  friendship  his  position : 
That  some  past  service  may  have  earned  for  wages 
Your  bed-procrustean  of  some  fourteen  pages  ; 
In  short,  that  some  old  friendly  claim  may  owe  its 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  53 

Cancelment  to  the  influence  of  your  "  Poets  ;n 
And  thus  that  HOFFMAN,  through  his  friend,  the 

"Doctor," 
Stands  among  freshman  bards  a  sort  of  "  proctor."(") 

"  Sparkling  and  bright"  is  HOFFMAN'S  soul,  they  say, 
Where  kindly  fancies  rule  with  gentle  sway  ; 
But  that  he  be,  as  Griswold's  book  declares, 
A  bard  with  whom  no  Yankee  bard  compares  : 
That,  in  his  puling  love  songs,  he  can  thrill 
One  heart  where  English  sways  a  score  at  will ; 
That  all  the  sparkling  fireflies  of  his  lyre 
Can  glow  like  Taylor's  "  Bison-track  "  of  fire ; 
That  even  with  Morris  (could  I  say  much  worse  ?) 
His  muse  can  measure  in  domestic  verse, — 
If  in  denying  these  things  I'm  outvoted, 
I  leave  the  matter  to — the  authors  quoted. 

"Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb" 
The  "  Giant's  Causeway  "  of  Gothamic  rhyme  ? 


54  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Once  PERCIVAL  in  classic  numbers  swept 
The  harp  which  since  so  sluggishly  has  slept : 
His  "  Genius  waking"  first  our  bosoms  stirred, 
To  mock  each  after  year  with  "  hope  deferred  ;" 
And  now,  "  forgetful  of  his  once  bright  fame," 
He  grasps,  content,  the  shadow  of  a  name. 
Who  shall  his  mute  and  stringless  harp  attune  ? — 
Not  even  thrice-classic  Clements — or  Bethune ! 

When  Parson  Pierpont,  in  Bostonian  pulpit, 
Fought  like  a  matador  in  Spanish  bull-pit ; 
And,  heedless  all  of  fire-bolts  round  his  steeple,  (3a) 
Bolted  cold  water  at  his  graceless  people, — 
Then,  rivalling  Pierpont,  broken  hearts  to  solace, 
The  charms  of  "  Adam's  ale"  were  sung  by  WAL 
LACE  :  (33) 

Sung  with  most  fearful  lungs  and  nerves  unshaken, 
Till  Preissnitz  soon  for  Orpheus  was  mistaken  ; 
Till  cisterns  seemed  the  Muses'  penetralia, 
And  aqueducts  the  only  true  Castalia. 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  55 

O,  WALLACE  !  "  man  of  Ross  " — not  now,  as  then, 
Thy  tyro-fingers  grasp  a  feeble  pen  : 
Not  now,  with  lisping  lovelays  on  thy  tongue, 
Need'st  thou  repeat  what  haply  scores  have  sung ; 
Nor  studied  phrase  nor  measured  strain  should  bind 
The  upward  soarings  of  thy  natural  mind ; 
No  senseless  arrogance  nor  weak  distrust 
Should  cramp  thy  powers  with  egoistic  rust. 
Wouldst  grasp  success-?    then  count  it  shame  to 

doubt ! 

Genius  hast  thou  ? — like  murder,  it  "  will  out" 
If  heavenly  Phoebus  yields  to  thee  his  team, 
Or  if  thy  muse,  like  Cutter's,  goes  by  "  steam  ;"  (at) 
If  fierce  as  Neal's,  thy  red-hot  language  glows, 
Or  softly  drips,  like  milk-and-water  Coe's ; 
If  Griswold  shrine  thee,  or  if  Graham  scorn, 
Be  sure  that  Jove  o'ersees  the  poet-born. 
Assert  thy  claims,  though  all  the  critics  carp, 
Take  "  heart  of  grace,"  and  strike  the  sounding  harp : 


56 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


If  the  world  laughs,  why  let  the  world  go  hang, — 
It  laughed  and  sneered,  when  glorious  Dante  sang  ! 

I  almost  passed  by  WILLIS — "  ah,  miboy  ! 

Foine  morning  !  da-da !"     Faith,  I  wish  him  joy — 

He's  forty-three  years  old — in  good  condition — 

And,  positively,  he  has  gained  "  position." 

Gad  !  what  a  polish  "  upper-ten-dom  "  gives 

This  executioner  of  adjectives ; 

This    man    who    strangles    English    worse    than 

Thuggists, 

And  turns  "  the  trade  "  to  trunkmakers  or  druggists ; 
Labors  on  tragic  plays,  that  draw  no  tiers — 
Writes  under  bridges,  and  tells  tales  of  peers ;  (86) 
His  subjects  whey — his  language  sugared  curds : 
Gods  !  what  a  dose ! — had  he  to  "  eat  his  words." 
His  "  Sacred  poems,"  like  a  rogue's  confessions, 
Gain  him  indulgence  for  his  worst  transgressions : 
His  "  fugitive  attempts  "  will  doubtless  live — 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  57 

5***        -fc 

Oh !  that  more  works  of  his  were  fugitive  ! 
Fate  to  his  fame  a  ticklish  place  has  given, 
Like  Mah'met's  coffin,  'twixt  the  earth  and  heaven ; 
But  be  it  as  it  will — let  come  what  may — 
Nat  is  a  star :  his  works — the  milky-way  ! 

"  Why  so  severe  on  WILLIS  ?"  Julia  cries, 

(Who  reads  De  Trobriand  in  an  English  guise ;)  (36) 

Why  so  severe  ?     Because  my  muse  must  make 

Example  stern  for  injured  Poesy's  sake. 

Not  that  Nat  WILLIS  curls  his  yellow  hair — 

Not  that  his  sense  can  breathe  but  perfumed  air — 

Not  that  he  plays  the  ape  or  ass,  T  mourn, 

For  ape  and  ass  are  worth  not  even  my  scorn. 

But  that,  with  mind,  and  soul,  and  haply  heart, 

He  yet  hath  stooped  to  act  the  fopling's  part ; 

Trifled  with  all  he  might  have  been,  to  be 

The  blas€  editor — at  forty-three  ; 

Flung  off  the  chaplet  which  his  boyhood  won, 

3* 


58  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

To  wear  the  fool's  cap  of  a  "  man  of  ton  !" 
I  lash  not  WILLIS  even  for  this  his  crime — 
Through  him  I  strike  the  bastard  tribe  of  rhyme  ; 
The  race  o'er  whom,  in  his  own  native  power, 
Jove-like  'mid  satyrs,  might  this  WILLIS  tower  ! 
0,  muse  !  whose  awful  presence  we  have  felt, 
Whose  genial  smiles  our  raptured  senses  melt : 
Ah,  when  thy  glorious  heart  is  big  with  love, 
Why  do  thy  chosen  children  recreant  prove  ? 
Fly  from  the  arms  which  might  sustain  their  souls, 
And  plunge  from  heaven  to  grub  the  earth  like 

moles  ? 

0,  awful  Nature  !  thou  whose  generous  blood, 
Like  the  strange  pelican's,  revives  her  brood  ! 
Whose  life  through  death  still  fructifies  again, 
Moulding  from  dragons'  teeth  its  armed  men !  (37) 
How  is  thy  truth  profaned  and  brought  to  shame, 
When  gewgaw  fashion  props  an  author's  fame ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  59 

When  mincing  phrase  usurps  the  place  of  sense, 
And  reason  yields  to  rhyme  the  precedence ! 

Pause,  honest  pen  !  thy  fervor  makes  thee  stray  : 

Pause,  ere  injustice  desecrates  thy  lay ; 

Though  all  Pandora's  ills  be  Poesy's  lot, 

Hope  lingers  still,  upheld  by  FREEMAN  SCOTT  !  (88) 

O,  patriot  SCOTT  !  thy  eagle  flights  I  sing, 

That  top  Parnassus  with  untiring  wing. 

No  more  shall  Hopkinson  Columbia  hail — 

Freneau  and  Paine  henceforth  are  voted  stale ; 

Even  Emmons  "  pales  his  ineffectual  fires," 

For  FREEMAN  SCOTT  hath  struck  the  sounding  wires. 

The  Union  saved  his  monument  shall  be — 

And  all  posterity  exist— "Scott  free!" 

Nature's  a  jealous  mistress,  and  who  wooes 
Her  smiles,  must  grant  her  passion  all  its  dues  ; 
She  hates  coquettish  airs,  but  yields  her  zone 


60 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Freely  to  him  who  clasps  it  to  his  own. 
Though  PIKE  shall  bawl  for  her  (unequal  odds  !) 
His  most  ungodly  "  Hymns  to  all  the  Gods  ;" 
Though  LUNT,  like  Jove  with  Danae  of  old, 
Woo  her  with  showeHngs  from  his  "  Age  of  Gold  ;'* 
Though  SIMMS,  with  Ponce  de  Leon's  madness  rife, 
Swear  that  in  "  Florida  "  lies  endless  life  ;  (") 
Though  light-horse  STREET,  with  Indian  lasso  slack, 
Should  seek  to  bind  her  pillioned  at  his  back  ; 
Though  HOSMER,  ambushed  in  some  tangled  glen, 
Like  awkward  Pan,  would  pipe  her  to  his  den  ; 
She  flies — or,  laughing  at  the  daring  elf, 
Bids  Echo  answer — while  she  hides  herself ! 


Yet,  haply,  Nature  gives  not  all  the  slip : 
HOYT  pilfers  kisses  from  her  glowing  lip — 
HOYT,  who  with  wooings  so  demure  and  meek, 
Secures  the  fame  he  scarcely  seems  to  seek  ; 
With  quiet  curb  constrains  his  champing  thought, 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  61 

Nor  gives  the  bridle  even  when  he  ought. 
Fearing,  like  Raleigh,  danger  if  he  climb,  (40) 
He  spoils  his  native  tune  by  serving  time ! 
'Tis  wrong,  friend  HOYT  !  no  poet  passive  lives  ! 
Blows  he  may  bear— but  blows  he  likewise  gives. 
Thy   "Blacksmith"    forged    true    armor   for   thy 

breast :  (41) 

Rise  now,  and  cast  thy  trenchant  lance  in  rest ! 
Of  stalwart  hearts  the  cause  of  man  hath  need, 
'Twere  shame  to  follow,  Ralph !  if  thou  canst 

lead! 

Ho  !  LYON  !  cynosure  of  fortune's  cornea, 
And  Poet-Laureate  of  California ! 
Bard  of  "  Eureka  "  and  of  "  Lyonsdale  "— (4a) 
Most  "  learned  Theban !"  I  do  bid  thee  hail ! 
0,  CALEB  !  thou,  the  brightness  of  whose  star, 
Even  Bayard  Taylor's  radiance  could  not  mar ; 
Whose  genius,  burning  for  a  deathless  fame, 
Linked  the  Pacific  with  thine  own  great  name,  (**) 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY" 


What  boots  it,  CALEB,  if  thy  rivals  sore 
Malign  thy  "  bear  "  by  calling  it  a  bore  ?  (44) 
What  recks  thy  muse,  if  jealous  witlings  say 
She's  mongrel-bred — in  Persia  and  Cathay !  (45) 
They  laugh  who  win,  and  thou  canst  sing  as  well, 
And,  faith,  I  think  thy  prancing  rhymes  will  sell 
For  just  as  much — and  bring  thee  thrice  the  pity, 
As  if  they'd  passed,  like  Taylor's,  through  banditti.  (48) 

Speaking  of  China,  or  Cathay  the  old, 

(Where  each  man  duplicates  his  neighbor's  mould,) 

Brings  to  my  mind — (a  natural  transition — ) 

That  town  of  most  Confucian  erudition, 

Where  dwell  "  One  Hundred  Orators  "  in  glory,  (47) 

And  lives  that  polymathic  wonder,  Story ! 

China  is  all  the  world — her  sons  celestial : 

Outside  barbarians  are  no  more  than  bestial ; 

So  Boston,  like  the  ancient  land  of  hyson — 

Counts  all  barbarian  beyond  her  horizon ! 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


63 


Her  WHIFFLES  out-Macaulay  Mac  himself — 
Her  EMERSONS  assign  Carlyle  the  shelf; 
Her  EVERETTS,  her  BROWNSONS,  and  her  CHANNINGS, 
Are  worth  a  score  of  Foxes,  Pitts,  and  Cannings  ; 
In  short,  her  LOWELLS,  LONGFELLOWS,  and  TAPPANS, 
Are  good  celestials  as  Chinese  or  Japans. 


No  lead  can  fathom  Boston's  mental  deep, 
No  alien  thought  can  scale  her  learning's  steep : 
No  fancy  strains  to  that  she  does  not  reach, 
And  none  may  learn  save  haply  she  shall  teach  ; 
Of  Fame's  broad  temple  Boston  keeps  the  portal, 
And  Boston's  bards  alone  are  dubbed  immortal — 
Even   though  her  dingy  bookstores,  it  is  said, 
Are  one  great  sepulchre   of  "  sheeted  dead." 
Behold !  "  Mat.  Lee,"  the  pirate,  killed  a  horse  : 
The  horse  came  back  again — a  "  spirit-corse  ;''  (48) 
And  so  does  DANA,  who,  for  many  a  yeafj 
On  Wiley's  book-shelves  found  a  quiet  bier. 


64  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLOHY. 

If  thus  in  Boston  mummied  books  are  prized, 
Great  Jove  !  even  SPRAGUE  may  yet  be  galvanized  ; 
Who  knows  what  prodigies  may  yet  be  noted, 
Where  PETER  PARLEY  sings,  and  FIELDS  is  quoted ; 
FIELDS,  with  his  whistle  piping  forth  the  throng 
Of  bards  who  wait  his  judgment  on  their  song. 

When  hawks  to  melody  attune  their  throats, 
Tremble  we  may  for  Philomela's  notes  ; 
So  when  "  the  trade  "  essay  the  Poet's  powers, 
Well  may  we  fear  for  this  poor  trade  of  ours. 
The  hapless  muse  her  hard-won  myrtle  yields, 
When  bookmen  brave  her  in  their  barren  fields ; 
When  Grub-street  practises  the  gentle  art, 
And  Ticknor  claims  Apollo's  counter-part. 
Ah,  Jamie  FIELDS  !  thy  verse  I'll  not  berate, — 
Bostonia's  Helicon  is — Cochituate ; — (49) 
Why  should  we  mourn,  in  these  teetotal  times, 
That  water-level  is  the  gauge  of  rhymes  ? 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  65 

Rich  are  thy  covers — ink  and  paper  good  : 
So  we'll  forgive  the  inside  platitude ; 
Thy  verses  sell — else  had  they  not  been  printed, 
Thy  brass  transmutes  to  gold,  as  good  as  minted. 
Bookmen  in  sooth  should  make  the  best  of  bards, 
As  faro-bankers  hold  the  winning  cards ; 
Write,  Jamie,  write — for  then  (I  smile  to  say  it) 
The  bard  will  get  per  cent. — the  bookman  pay  it. 

0,  Doctor  HOLMES  !     O,  funny  Doctor  HOLMES  ! 
Out  of  thy  mouth  Cochituate  fairly  foams  ; 
Most  glittering  froth — until  the  gas  is  freed — 
But  then,  alas !  a  "  venerable  bead." 
Doctor !  I  like  thee,  and  admire  the  zest 
With  which  the  world  believes  that  thou  canst  jest ; 
Thy  puns,  like  hares,  still  double  as  they  run, 
And  track  themselves  by  scenting  their  own  fun  ; 
Till  earthed  at  last  the  jokes  o'er  which  we  sorrowed, 
The  burrowed  rabbits  seem  but  rarebits  borrowed ; 


66  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Yet  still,  remorseless,  you  our  patience  try, 
And  sell  your  ink  to  prove  our  incubi.  (B0) 

Dear  Doctor  !  take  a  fool's  advice,  and  make 
No  more  bad  puns  for  shabby  Harvard's  sake ; 
And,  Doctor — (here  a  timely  hint  I'll  drop) — 
Talk  no  more  science — i.  e. — "  sink  the  shop  ;" 
Epsom  with  Attic  salt  I  hate  to  find — 
True  wit's  no  drug — so,  pr'ythee,  scour  thy  mind ; 
Leave  ganglions  to  Bell — and  pills  to  Buchan, 
And,  as  SAXE  wrote  a  satire,  try  if  you  can. 
Do  this— do  something,  or  I'm  much  impressed, 
Your  "  Last  Leaf"  will  be  thought  by  all  your  best ! 

Cantab  LONGFELLOW  ! — belle-lettr6  professor — 
Of  "  Washington's  Head  Quarters  "  sole  possessor ; 
Beloved  by  booksellers,  adored  of  "  sophs  " — 
Lo  !  at  thy  name  my  muse  her  bonnet  doffs  ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  67 

Yet,  in  the  mighty  name  of  Law,  I  venture 

For  debt  thou  owest  the  world  to  make  debenture. 

Not  for  the  debts  thou  owest  a  score  or  less 

Of  foreign  bards  who  now  wear  Yankee  dress ; 

Not  for  thy  clippings  of  old  rusty  coins — 

Thy  head  enriches  what  thy  hand  purloins ; 

Not  for  thy  thought-webs  cribbed  from   monkish 

looms — 

They're  better  in  thy  tomes  than  in  their  tombs ; 
Thy  alchemy  has  made  much  gold  from  lead, 
So,  "  let  the  dead  past  bury  "  all  "  its  dead  ;" 
For  ancient  wounds  let  silence  be  the  suture — 
I  ask  a  debt  thou  owest  the  awful  future ! 

Art  and  position,  HAL,  make  thee  a  poet, 
If  Nature  lends  her  signet,  pray,  let's  know  it ; 
Haply  thy  Harvard  fame  immortal  seems, 
Haply  thy  name  and  verse  be  synonyms. 


68 


PARNASSUS      IN      PI L  LORY. 


Yet,  if  them  wouldst  thy  proper  glory  reach, 
I  say  to  thee,  as  Lear  says, — "  mend  thy  speech !" 
Cast  off  thy  dressing-gown,  and  gird  thy  loins — 
And  learn  what  Deity  on  song  enjoins  ; 
Thou  hast  portrayed  ideal  wrongs  and  woes, 
Now,  by  my  harp  !  canst  real  wrongs  disclose  ? 
Thou  hast  drawn  tears  for  miseries  long  forgotten, 
Canst  thou  find  nothing  in  our  time  that's  rotten  ? 
O,  that  the  churchyard  past  were  ransacked  less ! — 
These  ghouls,  the  poets,  then  might  mankind  bless  : 
If  the  old  catacombs  were  left  to  moulder, 
Gold  mines  of  thought  we'd  find  ere  Pan  grew  older. 

Behold  young  LOWELL  !  in  whose  soul  there  lies 
Fathoms  below  where  his  own  vision  pries, 
A  grand  new  world,  of  power,  of  love,  of  light, 
Which  yet  may  flame — a  star  athwart  our  sight ; 
If  the  dull  shocks  of  life's  chaotic  wav.e 
Wash  not  away  the  orb  which  now  they  lave  ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  69 

O,  LOWELL  !  now  sententious — now  most  wordy — 
Thy  harp  Cremona  half— half  hurdy-gurdy ; 
Wouldst  thou  arise,  and  climb  the  steeps  of  heaven  ? 
Sandals  and  staff  are  for  thy  journey  given ; 
Wouldst  thou  embrace  the  poet-preacher's  lot  ? 
Nor  purse  nor  scrip  will  lift  thy  steps  a  jot ! 
Forth  on  the  highways  of  the  general  mind, 
Thy  soul  must  walk,  in  oneness  with  mankind. 
Thou  hast  done  well,  but  thou  canst  yet  do  better, 
And  winning  credit,  make  the  world  thy  debtor ; 
Pour  out  thy  heart — albeit  with  flaws  and  fractures : 
Give  us  thyself — no  "  Lowell  manufactures  ;" 
Then  shall  thy  heart-thought  vibrate  through  our 

pulse, 

And  all  thy  songs  be  milestones  of  results. 
But  if,  in  thy  true  eagle-like  aspirings, 
The  "mousing-owl "  of  Harvard  choke  thy  choirings ; 
If,  haply,  drugged  with  Tennysonian  theme, 
Thy  genius  stoop  to  dally  and  to  dream ; 


70  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

If — worse  than  all — fanaticism  clods 

The  song  which  is  Humanity's — and  God's  ; — 

Then  may  no  satire  of  thy  being  tell ! 

Then,  LOWELL  !  to  thy  fame  "  a  long  farewell !" 

Hark !  WHITTIER'S  sledge  upon  the  hearts  of  men 

Beats  in  continual  music — "  ten-pound-ten  !" 

Sworn  foe  of  "  institutions  patriarchal," 

Black  ground,  he  finds,  gives  gems  a  brighter  sparkle. 

Lo  !  how  he  comes,  with  earnest  heart  and  loyal, 

Flanked  by  his  ordnance  for  a  battle  royal ; 

Swinging  a  club  might  stagger  Hercules, 

To  dash  the  mites  from  off  a  mouldering  cheese ; 

Roaring  like  Stentor  from  his  brazen  throat, 

To  drown  some  snappish  spaniel's  yelping  note  ; 

Ah,WHiTTiER  !  Fighting  Friend  !  I  like  thy  verse — 

Thy  wholesale  blessing  and  thy  wholesale  curse  ; 

I  prize  the  spirit  which  exalts  thy  strain, 

And  joy  when  truth  impels  thy  blows  amain ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  71 

But,  really,  friend !  I  cannot  help  suspecting 
Though  writing's  good,  there's  merit  in  correcting  ! 
Hahnemann  likes  best  "  the  thirtieth  dilution,"  (") 
But  poetry  scarce  bears  so  much  diffusion ; 
The  homeopathic  thought  (though  truth  sublime) 
Dies  through  materia  medico,  of  rhyme  ; 
So,  WHITTIER,  give  less  lexicon,  and  more 
Good  thought — of  which  no  doubt  thou  hast  a  store. 
Give  us,  if  thou  wouldst  sing  a  flying  slave, 
Just  as  few  bars  as  he  or  she  would  crave ; 
And  if  on  "  Ichabod  "  thou  launchest  malison,  (62) 
Make  it  no  longer  than  two  books  of  Alison. 
And,  further,  WHITTIER,  "  an  thou  lovest  me," 
Let  thy  chief  subject  for  a  while  go  free ; — 
Or  else,  (how  frail  "  Othello's  occupation  !") 
When  slavery  falls,  will  fall  thine  avocation ! 
Living  the  black  man's  friend,  i'faith,  thou'lt  die  so : 
A  paraphrase  of  Wilmot's  great  proviso ! 


72  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

WHITTIER,  adieu !  my  blows  I  would  not  spare, 
For  when  I  strike,  I  strike  who  best  can  bear ; 
Oft  in  this  rhyme  of  mine  I  lash  full  hard 
The  man  whom  much  I  love,  as  friend  and  bard ; 
Even  as  the  leech,  inspired  by  science  pure, 
Albeit  he  probe  and  cauterize — must  cure ! 

TRIMOUNTAIN  !  long  hast  thou  the  Mecca  been 
Of  rhyming  hadgees  garbed  in  natural  green  ! 
Trimountain  !  Kaaba — reverently  kissed 
By  Yankee  bards — their  "  blarney-stone  "  I  wist.  (°3) 
To  thee  comes  Denison — to  thee  came  Doane ; 
M'Lellan,  Pike,  and  Sprague,  were  all  thine  own  : 
Pierpont  and  Everett  sung  for  thee  their  strains, 
And  savage  Snelling  flogged  them  for  their  pains. 
Ah,  me  !  if  once  thou  hadst  such  magnet  skill 
Our  bards  to  sway — I  pray  thee,  use  it  still ! 
Wake  as  of  old  the  three-stringed  Yankee  lyres, 
And  sound  the  pitchpipe  of  New  England  choirs ; 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY.  73 

Ask  if  JOHN  NEAL  no  longer  feels  the  flame 
With  which  he  lit  of  yore  the  bonfire  fame  ? 
Or  heads  no  more  his  charging  lines  to  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred  through  all  the  country  wide  ? 
Time  was  when,  vocal  as  his  "  fierce  grey  bird," 
In  parish-schools  his  shrieking  lays  were  heard  ; 
And  embryo  poets  felt  their  quickening  life, 
When  "  Pierpont's  Readers  "  woke  the  classic  strife  ! 
Mellifluous  PIERPONT,  whose  Horatian  odes 
Were  counted  heaviest  among  urchins'  loads ; 
When,  parsing  thee,  they  saw  their  trials  past, 
Nor  valued  gems  so  painfully  amassed. 
Ah,  many  a  gem  indeed  hath  been  encased 
By  Pierpont's  industry  and  Pierpont's  taste  ; — 
And  many  a  gem  in  quiet  beauty  glows, 
(Which  Griswold  ne'er  would  venture  to  disclose,) 
Where  BURLEIGH'S  songs,  attuned  with  placid  love, 
Rose  from  his  lips  to  blend  with  those  above ; 


74  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Where  DA  WES'  melodious  childhood  passed  away, 
And  WOODWORTH'S  genius  framed  its  virgin  lay. 

'Tis  a  coincidence  worth  special  credit, 
That  SARGENT  should  the  "Boston  Transcript"  edit ; 
Strange  the  "  poetic  justice  "  does  not  strike  him, 
(I  throw  the  hint  out,  as  I  rather  like  himr 
Because  my  favorite  bards  his  muse  rehearses,) 
Of  putting  "  Boston  Transcript  "  on  his  verses. 
Poor  man !  I  mourn  his  euphuistic  grammar, 
I  mourn  "Velasco,"  and  the  "  Standard  Drama ;"  (M) 
I  mourn — but,  no  !  I  wish  him  fame  sincerely : 
"  Athens  the  modem  "  dubs  her  poets  yearly ; 
Perhaps  at  "  Annual  Odes  "  he'll  distance  Sprague, 
Or  baffle  Emerson  with  problems  vague  ; — 
Perchance,  like  Pierpont,  prove  'tis  wrong  to  tipple, 
Or  ape  Macaulay,  like  sententious  Whipple  ! 

O,  EMERSON  !  some  transatlantic  Solon 
(As  a  discoverer  sure  he  rivals  Colon,) 


PARNASSUS     IN      PILLORY.  75 

Has  found  that  in  thy  brain — commodious  quarters — 
Lives  all  the  poesy  this  side  of  the  waters.  (") 
Ah,  me !  methinks  this  critic  spiritual 
Has  proved  thy  favorite  creed  that  man  is  dual ; 
Would  that  his  research  might  reveal  the  fact 
Of  thy  poetic  essence — all  intact ! 
Would  that  the  Heart-Beat  of  the  Awful  Whole 
Could  pulse  distinct,  and  gauge  thy  Breadth  of  Soul ; 
Till  Sense  Incarnate,  robed  in  Suns  like  Ammon, 
Might  permeate,  and  throb  through  Space — and — 
gammon. 

Speaking  of  gammon — I  destroyed,  last  night — 
(In  several  vain  attempts  to  strike  a  light) 
Destroyed,  ye  gods  !   a  work  that  would  have  burst 
Like  sunlight  o'er  the  world — out-rhyming  Hirst ; 
Out-mouthing  Lunt — out-agonizing  Emerson — 

Out hold!  the  idea  brings  increasing  tremors  on. 

It  was  a  poem  upon  the  softer  gender — 
Sublime,  unique,  expressive,  touching,  tender ; 


— ft 

76  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Such  adjectives  !  such  nouns!  such  punctuation! — 
Such  awful  strength  !  and  such  alliteration ! 
In  it  sweet  EDITH  MAY,  with  true  abandon, 
Was  placed  some  twenty  pegs  above  poor  Landon ; 
SIGOURNEY  plucked  from  Hemans'  brow  the  myrtle, 
And  HALE  was  Sappho — with  a  longer  kirtle ; — • 
GREENWOOD  was  Norton  and  De  Stael  united, 
And  Blessington  for  Mistress  NEAL  was  slighted. 
To  some  nine  more  I  gave  the  Muses'  names, 
As  PIERSON,  SWISSHELM,  and  such  like  dames. 
Alas  !  that  such  a  poem — on  bards  so  gentle — 
Was  lost  by  conflagration  accidental ; — 
Griswold  alone,  in  some  bright  spirit-flashes, 
Can  raise  this  Yankee  phoenix  from  its  ashes.  (B6) 

But,  apropos — when  poetry's  "  the  fashion," 
Women  and  men  alike  must  feel  the  passion : 
Verse-writing  's  very  nice  on  gilt-edged  vellum, 
Crow-quilled  by  some  young  literary  Pelham. 


PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Let  women  write — their  will  'tis  useless  balking  : 
They  do  less  harm  by  writing  than  by  talking! 
Write — write !    but,  oh,   I  charge   each  rhyming 

daughter, 
Let  not  the  men  purloin  your  milk  and  water ! 

Ho !  for  the  WEST  !  the  boundless,  buoyant  West ! 
'Tis  monstrous  dull  when  poetry's  the  quest ; 
Where  Mississippi's  awful  grandeurs  roll 
Like  an  eternal  anthem  through  the  soul ; — 
Where  tombs  of  empires  rise  in  nameless  woe, 
Colossal  epics  of  the  tribes  below ; — 
Where  leaped  the  Mammoth,  with  a  bound  terrific, 
From  Rocky  Mountains  to  the  far  Pacific ;  (") 
Where  border-frays  that  beat  old  Scottish  forays, 
Impromptu  duels  and  red  Indian  soirees, — 
And  all  that  makes  the  human  hair  most  vertical, 
As  common-place  transactions  are  assert-ical ;  (*") 


7-8  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 


Sure,  in  a  clime  so  stirring  and  romantic, 

The  muse  and  Pegasus  must  both  grow  frantic. 

Frantic  !  ah,  no !  the  West,  with  sage  reflection, 
Confines  her  muse  to  pinafore  subjection  ; 
And  save  when  PRENTICE,  after  hock  and  soda, 
Invokes  his  muse  as  Fingal  conjured  Loda ; — 
Wielding  the  falchion  of  his  classic  wit 
To  oust  the  phantoms  that  around  him  flit ; 
Unconscious  all,  that  while,  with  accents  loud, 
He  wooes  his  muse,  his  muse  is  but  a  cloud  : — 
And  save  when  GALLAGHER,  with  trenchant  stroke, 
Cleaves  through  a  wrong  as  woodmen  rend  an  oak ; 
And,  haply,  rising  from  the  flat  inane, 
Pipes  on  the  airs  of  heaven  a  golden  strain  : — 
Save  and  except,  at  times,  some  bulbul  notes, 
Fresh  from  a  few  sequestered  maidens'  throats, 
That  sometimes  please  and  sometimes  strangely  jar — 
I  know  not  where  our  western  poets  are. 


tt 

PARNASSUS     IN      PILLORY.  79 

Not  ORTON  soars  to  strike  the  highest  chord — 
Nor  Georgic  CHIVERS,  nor  LEGARE,  nor  LORD  ! 
When  the  great  Iliad  of  the  sunset  land 
Is  writ,  it  must  be  by  a  Homer's  hand  : 
'Till  then,  low-brooding  through  its  busy  life, 
The  Western  Poem  shall  be  Manhood's  Strife ! 
Loud  as  the  thunders  of  thy  surging  woods, 
Broad  and  majestic  as  thine  awful  floods, 
Deep  as  thy  soundless  caves,  0  mighty  West ! — 
Thus  be  thy  song — an  ocean  in  thy  breast! 

Rest  thee,  mine  Harp !  my  wearied  hand  I  fling, 
With  scarce  an  impulse,  o'er  each  quivering  string ! 
My  thankless  task  hath  reached  its  natural  term — 
Wisdom  its  fruit— though  Folly  was  its  germ. 
Not  mine  to  scathe  with  bitter  jest  the  heart, 
Or  reckless  launch  the  slanderer's  jealous  dart ; — 
Not  mine  to  prostitute  the  gift  of  song, 
To  wreak  revenge  for  real  or  fancied  wrong ; 


80  PARNASSUS      IN      PILLORY. 

Behind  my  jest  no  covert  malice  slept — 

From  out  my  praise  no  inuendo  crept : 

An  honest  Anglo-Saxon  round  of  blows 

I've  dealt  alike  upon  my  friends  and  foes ; 

And  if  I  struck  full  oft  within  the  guard — 

Be  sure,  I  might  have  struck  ten  times  as  hard ! 


NOTES, 


NOTES, 


00 

Convened  them  all,   then  broke  each  harp  and  head. — 
Page  3. 

The  massacre  of  the  Welsh  bards  occurred  under  Ed 
ward  I. 

(2.) 

ask  where  "  Peter's  keys  "  are. — Page  9. 

It  is  currently  reported  that  a  question  like  this  was  pro 
pounded  by  a  well-known  travelling  litterateur,  after  being 
shown  through  the  Vatican. 

(3.) 

Published  receipts  of  shoemakers  and  drapers. — Page  11. 
It  was  a  masterly  stroke  in  "  mi-boy  "  to  advertise  his 
patrons  in  this  manner  ;  but  not  quite  so  profitable,  we 
opine,  as  Beau  Brummell  would  have  made  it.  Genius  is 
sometimes  unequal. 

(4-) 

Dixon-like,  "walked"  into  the  "  literati." — Page  12. 

George  Washington  Dixon,  the  pedestrian  was,  like  many 
great  men,  before  his  time.  J.  B.  T.  seized  the  dotard  by  the 
forelock  and  became  what  he  is :  the  "  glorious  Chester 
county  farmer-boy." — Vide  Graham's  prospectus  for  1851. 


84  NOTES. 


(5.) 
Why  are  the  hapless  men  of  music-stores.  —  Page  15. 

O,  Walker,  Hall,  and  Fiot  ! 
O  music-printing  trio  ! 
For  ballads  furnished  free,  O 
Sing,  jubilate  Deo  I 

(6.) 

-  the  northman's  fable.  —  Page  16. 
This  I  believe  is  a  German  legend,  but  it  has  become 
classic  to  ascribe  such  things  to  the  "  Saga." 


Who  fought  for   glory,  grub,   and   Jackson's  medal.  — 
Page  17. 

This  T.  Mayne  Reid  was  an  adventurous  young  Irish 
man,  both  in  literature  and  the  camp.  He  applied  for  the 
medal  bequeathed  by  Gen.  Jackson,  to  the  "  bravest  man 
of  the  next  war."  Certainly  no  stronger  proof  of  his  bold 
ness  could  be  required  than  the  application  itself. 

(8.) 

What  though  no  "  Witchcraft  "  saved  poor  Puffer's  name, 
And  Jacob.—  Page  17. 

Neither  of  these  plays  ("  Witchcraft,"  and  "  Jacob  Leis- 
ier  ")  was  produced  under  the  author's  name,  but  their  want 
of  success  led  to  the  belief  that  "  C.  M."  wrote  them. 


NOTES.  85 


(9.) 

For  "  Authors'  Eights  "—Page  18. 
Cornelius  Matthews  has  always  contended  stoutly  for  an 
"  International  Copyright  Law,"  and  for  this,  if  for  no  other 
merit,  should  be  cherished  by  every  friend  of  his  country's 
literature. 

(10.) 

He  steered  for  Hungary. — Page  19. 
With   all   his   eccentric   egotism,  Reid  was   a   gallant 
soldier  ;    and  I  had  hoped  that  Hungary  would  prove  a 
surer  field  of  honor  for  him  than  Mexico. 

(11.) 

That  "  Donkey  John  "  's  of  Pegasus  a  colt. — Page  20. 

"  John  Donkey  "  was  a  funny  periodical  issued  in  Phila 
delphia.  It  was  the  best  attempt  at  a  "  Punch  "  our  dys 
peptic  jokers  have  yet  perpetrated.  Had  it  been  less 
meritorious,  it  had  been  longer-lived.  English  was  the 
principal  writer  He  is  a  most  incongruous  author — has 
written  some  of  the  best  things  in  the  language,  and  some 
of  the  worst. 

(12.) 

The  pit  at  "  Sadler's  Wells"  took  kindly  to  if.— Page  23. 
Calaynos  was  played  with  success  at  "  Sadler's  Wells  " 
(the  "  Chatham"  of  London,)  adapted  doubtless  to  the  taste 
of  the  audience  by  British  "  paste  and  scissors." 


86  NOTES. 


(IS.) 
That    earth    boasts   one    more  "  admirable    Crichton." — 

Page  26. 

Some   pronounce   the   Scotchman's  name  Cri-ton  ;   an 
error — proved  by  my  rhyme. 

(14.) 

With  "  Slackstone"  pillowing  his  majestic  head. — Page  26. 
Hirst  is  a  lawyer  in  good  practice — so  his  literary 
vagaries  are  not  seriously  detrimental  to  himself.  He  is 
counted  a  "  dead  shot "  in  the  sporting  line  ;  is  a  bird- 
fancier,  connoisseur  in  art,  an  amateur  seedsman  and  florist ; 
might  be  famous  as  a  politician  if  he  would  try  ;  in  short,  a 
Figaro,  a  Caleb  Quotem,  and — the  "  author  of  Endymion." 

(15.) 

Look  where  Geneva  mocks  a  martyr's  cries. — Page  31. 
If  Servetus,  Seneca,  or  any  of  the  thousand  martyrs  to  an 
idea,  could  have  been  consoled  by  the  certainty  that  their 
thoughts  would  survive  them,  the  bed  of  torture  might  have 
seemed  a  couch  of  roses.  While  Hope  sustains  genius,  she 
's  invulnerable  :  Despair  is  her  agony  and  death-travail. 

(16.) 

"  Gin  gratis — and  eight  dollars  each  per  diem." — Page  35. 
This  is  a  portion  of  a  lampoon  which  some  Michael 
Steno,  who  had  not  the  fear  of  greatness  before  his  eyes, 
wrote  on  the  doors  of  the  Senate  chamber,  at  Washington, 
on  a  certain  occasion  when  Congress  had  adjourned  to 
attend  the  races. 


NOTES. 


87 


(17.) 

"  You  lie  /"—Page  35. 
A  well-known  Congressional  expletive. 

(18.) 
No  !  "  Ellen  Jewett "  his  sleeping  sense  recalls. — Page  42. 

The  "  life "  of  this  wretched  woman  is  one  of  the  least 
objectionable  of  the  class  of  books  alluded  to  ;  the  life  of  a 
courtezan  murdered  by  a  libertine.  What  a  comment  is  it 
upon  public  taste,  that  such  works  should  command  exten 
sive  sale  ! 

(19.) 
Tempts   her  with  titbits  from   a  thousand  "  marts." — 

Page  46. 

I  have  distinguished  this  last  word  by  quotation  marks, 
inasmuch  as  it  has  been  so  often  used  by  READ  in  his  poems 
that  I  conceive  he  has  earned  a  pre-emption  right  to  it. 

(20.) 
And  doffs  the  Spartan  for  the  Sybarite  soul. — Page  46. 

If  the  Sybarite  was  incommoded  by  a  roseleaf  placed: 
under  his  couch,  I  fear  my  young  friend  "  Tibia"  will 
hardly  recover  from  the  levity  with  which  the  satirist 
alludes  to  his  mimosa-like  genius. 

(21.) 
In  spite  of  satires — or  the  "  Whig  Eemew." — Page  47. 

The  "American  Review"  criticised  READ  with  great 
acrimony — and  injustice. 


88  NOTES. 


(22.) 

When    JRynders    wields,    like    Hercules,   his    "  club." — 

Page  48. 

The  "Empire  Club,"  a  political  organization,  was  long, 
if  it  be  not  at  present,  swayed  by  the  notorious  Captain 
Rynders :  holding  its  meetings,  as  is  well  known  to  most 
politicians,  at  Tammany  Hall,  New  York. 

(23.) 
Treads  the  old  party-lines  from  Post  to  Post. — Page  48. 

Bryant  is  the  editor  of  the  "  New  York  Evening  Post," 
a  stanch  partizan  journal,  devoted  to  the  democratic  side 
of  politics. 

(24.) 

In  making  him  a  classical  Procrustes. — Page  49. 
The  coolness  with  which  this  old  robber  lopped  or 
stretched  his  hapless  guests,  to  proportion  them  to  the 
dimensions  of  his  iron  bedstead,  was  not  a  bad  antetype  of 
the  modern  sang-froid  which  reduces  all  orders  of  genius 
to  a  standard  medium.  When  will  the  world  come  to 
Mrs.  Malaprop's  conclusion  respecting  "  comparisons \1" 

(25.) 

a  new  Ant&us  is. — Page  49. 

My  apology  for  the  introduction  of  this  classic  giant 
must  be  the  capital  rhyme  he  affords. 


NOTES.  89 


(26.) 
a  sort  of  editorial  Warwick. — Page  50. 

It  was,  I  believe,  reckoned  of  the  last  importance  to 
the  early  vitality  of  mammoth  literary  sheets,  printed  some 
years  back,  that  P.  B.  should  at  least  dry-nurse  them. 

(27.) 
Like  afreets  damned. — Page  51. 

Afreets,  according  to  eastern  superstition,  are  evil  spirits 
haunting  desert  places ;  once  angels,  but  condemned  to 
suffer  for  their  neglect  of  high  duties. 

(28.) 
a  critic's  hell. — Page  51. 

Orpheus  himself  never  attempted  so  deep  a  descent  as 
this ;  but  by  the  time  Stoddard  gets  through  with  the 
Plutonian  epic  he  is  now  writing,  he  will  probably  be 
acclimated  to  the  most  intense  kind  of  caloric. 

(29.) 
they  called  him  "  Echo."— Page  52. 

An  article,  charging  Hoffman  with  plagiarism,  imitation 
of  Moore,  etc.,  appeared  in  an  English  magazine,  whereupon 
he  printed  a  collection  of  his  poems,  under  the  title  of 
"  The  Echo  ;"  decidedly  a  too  suggestive  title,  as  it  turned 
out. 


90  NOTES. 


(30.) 

Equal  to  Waller's  "  richest"  songs,  or  Herrick's.—Page  52. 
A  bona-fide  "  opinion  as  is  an  opinion,"  by  that  eminent 
D  D.  M.D.  and  LL.D.— the  author  of  "  Griswold's  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  America."     See  art.  Hoffman. 

(31.) 

a  sort  of  "  proctor." — Page  53. 

A  "proctor"  is  a  college  officer.  I  make  this  explana 
tion  that  no  malicious  reader  may  seek  to  discover  any 
sinister  allusion  to  the  bard  of  that  name.  Hoffman  is  at 
least  not  Barry  Cornwall's  "  Echo  " — and  never  will  be. 

(32.) 
fire-bolts  round  his  steeple. — Page  54. 

Pierpont  was  at  one  time  engaged  in  a  fierce  controversy 
with  his  parishioners,  many  of  whom,  being  interested  in 
the  very  profitable  vocation  of  distilling,  naturally  took 
umbrage  at  their  pastor's  zeal  in  the  cause  of  temperance. 
Many  futile  efforts  were  made  to  oust  the  reverend  poet 
from  his  pulpit,  which  I  think  he  held  by  a  life-tenure.  I 
forget  how  the  matter  ended,  but  recollect  the  steeple  of 
Hollis  street  church  was  twice  struck  by  lightning  during 
the  division  of  the  flock. 

33.) 
The  charms  of  "  Adam! 8  Ale  "  were  sung  by  Wallace. — 

Page  54. 

A  volume  of  Cold  Water  Melodies,  written  by  Wallace, 
was  plinted  at  Boston  in  1840,  or  thereabouts. 


NOTES. 


91 


(34.) 
Or  if  thy  muse,  like  Cutter's,  goes  by  "  steam." — Page  55. 

The-"  Song  of  Steam,"  by  George  W.  Cutter,  is  one  of 
the  most  vigorous  lyrics  in  the  language. 

(35.) 
tells  tales  of  peers.— Page  56. 

Was  it  "  Jottings  down  in  London,"  or  some  other 
of  Willis's  gossip,  that  rehearsed  the  dinner-talk  of  English 
nobility  ?  Can  anybody  recollect  1 

(36.) 
De  Trobriand. — Page  57. 

De  Trobriand  conducted  with  much  ability  the  "  Revue 
de  Nouveau  Monde" — rendered  into  copious  English 
through  the  Home  Journal ;  in  spite  of  which  it— deceased. 


(37.) 
Moulding  from  dragons'  teeth  its  armed  men. — Page  58. 

I  admire  the  beauty  of  this  classical  myth.  It  is  a 
blessed  thing  that  nature  works  out  her  own  beautiful 
results,  through  the  most  unshapely  means.  Who  knows 
but  that  the  spectacle  of  a  talented  man  making  a  show  of 
himself,  may  be  ordained  on  the  principle  which  led  the 
ancient  Lacedemonians  to  exhibit  an  inebriated  slave  to 
their  children — to  disgust  them  with  the  sin  of  drunkenness  1 


92 


NOTES. 


(38.) 
Hope  lingers  stilly  upheld  by  Freeman  Scott. — Page  59. 

Scott  is  a  modern  Curtius,  who  threw  himself  into  the 
gulf  of  nullification,  and  (in  a  Pickwickian  sense)  saved 
the  country.  He  wrote  a  "  Song  for  the  Union,"  and 
offered  a  prize  of  $50  for  appropriate  music,  to  which  it 
was  in  fact  sung,  at  the  great  union  meeting  of  15,000 
unterrified  patriots  in  the  Chinese  Museum,  Philadelphia. 
He  deserves  immortality — and  shall  have  it. 


(39.) 
Swear  that  in  "  Florida  "  lies  endless  life. — Page  60. 

Of"  Florida,"  (as  of  most  American  epics)  very  little  is 
known — nor  whether  "  Florida  water "  be  its  principal 
component ;  so  I  am  not  particularly  clear  about  the 
immortal  destiny  of  its  author. 

(40.) 
Fearing,  like  Raleigh,  danger  if  he  climb. — Page  61. 

Sir  Walter's  celebrated  couplet,  and  Queen  Elizabeth's 
rejoinder,  are  so  well  known  that  their  repetition  here 
would  scarcely  be  worth  the  space  occupied. 

(41.) 

Thy  "  Blacksmith." — Page  61. 
The  "  Blacksmith's  Night,"  is  one  of  Hoyt's  best  poems. 


NOTES. 


93 


(42.) 

Bard  of  "  Eureka  "  and  of  "  Lyonsdale."-*-PagG  61. 

"  Caleb  Lyon  of  Lyonsdale  "  is  a  modern  troubadour  ; 
penning  at  San  P'rancisco  a  lyric  for  the  "  Eureka  State  " — 
chanting  semi- Spanish  ballads  through  South  America — 
apostrophizing  Jenny  Lind  in  Gotham,  and  "  stumping  " 
himself  into  the  "  Assembly "  by  poetic  speech-making  in 
general.  The  Hon.  W.  0.  Butler's  "  Boat-Horn  "  nearly 
gained  that  gentleman  the  Vice-Presidency  ;  and  if  "  the 
Hon.  Caleb  Lyon  "  should  run  for  the  Chief  Magistracy, 
I  would  not  bet  against  his  chances. 

(43.) 

Linked  the  Pacific  with  thine  own  great  name. — Page  61. 
Among  the  achievements  of  Lyon  must  not  be  forgotten 
the  design  of  the  California  state  seal — for  which  he  received 
$1,000  and  a  place  in  the  "  golden  archives."  This  is  even 
better  than  being  "  sung  in  all  the  churches,"  like  General 
Geo.  P.  Morris. 

(44.) 

Malign  thy  "  bear"  by  calling  it  a  bore. — Page  62. 
A  "  grizzly  bear  "  formed  part  of  the  seal  design  men 
tioned    above.      The    Mexicans  in   California  were   first 
defeated  by  the  Americans,  under  a  flag  with  this  device. 

(45.) 

in  Persia  and  Cathay. — Page  62. 

The  bard  of  Lyonsdale  is  noted  for  his  translations  from 
Hafiz  the  Persian,  and  Souchong-Bohea  (if  we  quote 
right),  the  Shanghai  bard. 


94 


NOTES. 


(46.) 

As  if  they'd  passed,  like  Taylor's,   through   banditti. — 
Page  62. 

We  cannot  think  that  our  young  Bayard  emulated  the 
chevalier  "  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche"  in  his  Mexican 
adventure  with  brigands.  But  then  all  our  poets  are  not 
expected  to  be  Kcerners  ;  or,  perhaps,  Taylor's  fame  (unlike 
that  of  Ariosto)  had  not  preceded  him  among  the  "  moon's 
minions." 

(47.) 

Where  dwell "  One  Hundred  Orators"  in  glory. — Page  62. 
The  "  Boston  Post "  published  a  biographic  sketch  of 
Edwin  P.  Whipple,  as  the  first  of  a  manuscript,  entitled 
the  "  Hundred  Boston  Orators."  Heaven  help  the  next 
generation ! 

(48.) 

a  "  spirit-corse." — Page  63. 

See  "  The  Buccaneer  "  for  this  delectable  compound. 

(49.) 

Cochituate.—PagG  64. 

The  Cochituate  water  (as  any  Bostonian  will  assure  you) 
is  a  perfectly  innocent  beverage. 

(50.) 

our  incubi. — Page  66. 

For  the  perpetration  of  these  enormities,  I  plead  in  excuse 
my  desire  to  present  the  reader  with  a  sample  of  the 
doctor's  own  assortment. 


NOTES.  95 


(51.) 
The  "  thirtieth  dilution."—  Page  71. 

The  "  thirtieth  dilution  "  is  said  to  be  the  best  proportion 
in  homoeopathy. 

(52.) 
And  if  on  "  Ichabod"  thou  launchest  malison.  —  Page  71. 

"  Ichabod  "  was  the  caption  of  a  poem  which,  in  no  half 
way  strain,  arraigned  a  celebrated  statesman  for  his  reputed 
backslidings.  I  regretted  this,  because,  while  I  hold  poetry 
to  be  a  fitting  medium  for  the  promulgation  of  great  truth, 
defence  of  humanity,  liberty,  etc.,  I  hardly  esteem  it  the 
proper  vehicle  of  equivocal  personalities  or  censorious 
strictures.  The  true  poet  is  of  no  ism  nor  creed,  per  se. 
Whittier  is  a  true  poet  —  but  it  is  not  in  his  negrophilism  that 
this  fact  is  most  apparent.  James  Russell  Lowell  —  ditto. 

(53.) 

Trimountain  !  Kadba  —  reverently  kissed.  —  Page  72. 

Blackstone  was  the  founder  of  the  "  Modern  Athens." 
The  Kaaba  is  a  "  black  stone  "  at  Mecca,  held  in  high 
veneration  by  all  true  Moslems,  on  whom  a  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca  confers  the  title  of  "  hadgee"  and  the  distinction  of 
wearing  a  green  turban.  The  "  blarney  stone  "  is  familiar 
to  those  authors  who  deal  much  with  publishers. 

(54.) 

-  The  "  Standard  Drama."  —  Page  74. 
This  is  an  unfortunate   publication.      The  authors  of 
"  Velasco  "  and  "  Puffer  Hopkins"  have  severally  "  edited  " 
it.     Whose  turn  next  ?  Boker's  ? 


ft 


96 


NOTES. 


(55.) 

all  the  poesy  this  side  of  the  waters. — Page  75. 

It  was  asserted  by  a  British  Review  that  Emerson  is  the 
only  true  American  poet. 

(56.) 

this  Yankee  Phoenix. — Page  76. 

What  a  capital  satirist  Griswold  would  make — handling 
"  The  Female  Poets  !" 

(57.) 

Where  leaped  the  Mammoth  with  a  bound  terrific, 
From  Rocky  Mountains  to  the  far  Pacific. — Page  77. 
For  a  succinct    ccount  of  this  famous  leap,  vide  Hirst's 
"  Coming  of  the  Mammoth." 

(58.) 

assert-icaL — Page  78. 

A  Willisian  license. 


